not so much a stream but
a torrent, discontinuously melded
by glacial tides, angled emotions;
not a new way of seeing, exactly,
but my own voice, legible.
my own small fingers,
connecting pad to roughened nail
with each of your splayed ones,
flower petals pushed closed
by a hailstorm of denials,
a firm refusal in the meeting
of eyes.
cobalt and gray,
sea-colored glass
through which you view
the dreams you thought
abandoned you at puberty;
awake but almost…
there. The instant slips
between closing knuckles,
eluding coherence, dandelion seeds
shooed out by puffed cheeks
to sprout on the wind.
And you thought it was over.