I love the cicatrix which runs
                                          like a ridge
behind your eyes. It
                                has been called sky and
you
       have been called sky
                                     of light when you waltz
between the lioness
                             and the lawn chair,
reach out and clasp the empty
                                            air around you.
Nonnavigable, you
                             are not sky, skin of off-white
wedding dress, green
                               light beside the mountain
range.
         Air will never fall
                                    into or out of grip.
You might drive into
                               a fog or walk through
flooded streets,
                        you might drop from an invisible
ladder. Clouded lover,
                                   silent idea,
even in sky you
                         are not sky, you
slip quick
               from unopened and weathered lips.