sometimes

upon the tender caress
of headlights gliding by

a window
recalls you

tattooed in rainfall

as if suddenly a galaxy of stars
entombed in ocean’s amber
forms a mosaic of miniscule museums
displaying separate heartbreaks
within every gilded pinprick

and the dusk
as though dared to
peels the world
nude
beyond its bones

until it is mere scent

mere indigo
as an anesthetic
by which the day
dies in its sleep

to meet you somewhere in a dream

and the grass
bows to the falling sun
to taunt the clocks
for all that time can never touch
but merely tell

through ripples in ponds of stone
or bruises on the moon

that pearl diver’s muse
who blushes shadow
into a cloak of oblivion

like you

everywhere forever
but never there
in truth.