—after Louise Glück

I go on addressing the saints

by their first names. sea garden

nasturtiums. coastal sage. siberian

iris. the california poppy. love

in moonlight. a thin stream of hard tapwater

polishes my fingers, licks a brief coat

of lemon salt from glacial glass.

I feed you music slowly as you lay

blinded, cotton gauze over your brow,

the air cold and clear. you are in my world

for two days, then rise again

with perfect sight, long lashes, the talent

of a soloist. in conscription 

in the mountains.

 

I’d read any book to you

all through the broken morning. until I fail.

until I become all voice, you understand.

until I become again the sea.