I wanted not to tell of where I'd been and what I'd heard,
to tell of reptile scales so big they blotted out the sun,
of clouds and river breakers lapping at my toes,
of regret and washed up frames, rust blackened,
shelves of jars gone farther down stream while
the metal skeleton sat where my fishing rod was supposed to go
and crushed beer cans and months of fire pit stones stood.
I wanted to tell you that I missed you and our best days,
laughing shoulder to shoulder and eye contact too long, broken
by the magical words "do you have a lighter"
knowing yours was at home too.
The wind kicking up and the clouds threatening
miles in the distance and fingers splayed to crease sunlight
while we dragged the metal to the golf cart submerged
in the lagoon beside the metal drum the river gifted,
turned a'right to accept the garbage human traffic
left behind at our fishing spot beneath the bridge.
I called to ask you if you saw it too. The world
through a window, small, in the furnace door
where men and women could look safely.
I called to ask if you saw it too
through the inch square thick glass and
to hear what you thought while you were blazing.
The seconds slip by and you sleep while I die and
I'll live while you breathe into your day dream.
Rise from the dead with the sun in your mouth
and I'll come to you, lips wet, to,
teeth open wide,
take it.
