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.