poets see lines in their minds
as they strive to be scribes at the
start of the page

what I’m “writing" for her's not a 
poem then, since I’m moved not by
words, but image

a portrait of peacefulness etched in the sky
framed by contrails of jets and yet,
in my minds eye

as real as an architect’s opus in steel
as the slow turning cars on the big ferris wheel
as olors of 稀飯, 烤鸭, and goreng
as the orchid’s speckles, bromeliad’s fangs
as these smooth lettered keys that I tap with my hand
as my journal, which mentions her, on the nightstand

things concrete, molecular - yes, they exist
but when I glance up just one 
image persists

eyes I can smile at for hours and days
a bonfire of warmth I can 
trust with my gaze

so when my friends ask, “why are you off in space?”
this city’s a notebook, I’m
writing her face.