I must begin somehow,
someway, to tell you the truth.
The faith I have in puddles,
in dirt,
in the air that surrounds your soul.
Everything I see is a hologram
of everything else.
Everything has fingers.
My eyes touch stone
and they are firmed with hardness.
They fold me into their edges.
They facet me into crystal
and take me as light
into their veins,
and I give them my sea,
my blood,
the tidal storms
of a thousand moons,
and the rock grows with me
forever changed.
I possess the poems of ancient stars.
Everything is on the counter of time,
and everything is a truth,
the faraway call of another voice.
Truth is what I want for you.
The knowledge of one idea,
one small flood of water,
your face shining
in the puddle of your dream.
We are forever.
We are forever,
a form of happiness.
That is the way it is,
my small beloved.