Woman with a telescope.

Curling clouds, of permanent waves, pinned back,
her bright eye is pressed against the eye piece;
in love with the light that freckles the black,
like the freckles constellated on her face.

Life blood, as red as Mars, brightens her cheeks,
then her mouth grins, mirroring Saturn’s rings;
bright nebulae fill the air when she speaks,
describing every wing and harp string.

Atlantic depressions caress her hair,
the winter wind reaching out of my mind;
I dream that we’re connected by the air;
I dream of a telescope for the blind.

Two shooting stars stroke her objective lense;
she gasps, lungs swell, her chest rises and sets;
an anatomy of coincidence
catches two snowflakes in her hair’s soft net.

Is turns to was, she moves to memory;
my arms were too short, my courage too small;
I’m a pimple upon eternity;
I’m a dust speck in a deafening squall.