Portola Plaza

I want to write with lilies
spilling out of my mouth.
Full of wind. Curled up under a well-traveled
sweater, dank ends and edges of a fingernail
flipping over each scrawled page.

Shivering in snow-lined pockets,
penning lyrics to him.

What kind of flowers does he like?

As summer springs forth to fall, I call to
winter days, all pumpkin and stew.

Holding each tender bone against my veins, his
imprint presses gently, all vintage vineyard, cold
breath.

Swilling through glass, I live in
seconds. Listen for cotton fluttering. A vericose flow.

I want to call his name into the night
and hear him sing back to me.

Swilling liquid, sure of what to look for,
finding nothing but muddled time.

I was destined for empty bottles.
For thickets of roses grown in wine.