in a ninth century
sports car formerly
owned by Ivar the Boneless.
It runs on ice water
and has a Viking horn
hood ornament.
I drove through words,
my tires hissing words
over hills of words.
The ribbon of asphalt
snapped me to you
like a whip.
I flew over mountains in a toy
airplane losing my hair
on the bald peaks,
it's rubber band engine
whirring like cicadas after
a twelve year nap,
revved up and hungry,
a spinning dervish
dizzy for your love.
I climbed without fear
the hollow blue of loneliness
into inner space.
My mind sucked
into a vacuum, my eyes
smoldering like falling stars.
I put my breath
behind me
to move on.
I rode the Titanic through
iceberg after iceberg
each the size of a hundred
Manhattans to find you.
I stayed mostly underwater,
held my breath for centuries,
floated face down
cold as a splintered reed
in the icy heart
of a saxophone.
Now I open like fog
in the sunlight,
with your hand
warm on my shoulder
I turn to meet your lips.
Each day all is new.
The ancient sax
howls outside my sun
splashed window
thick and golden as honey,
brings me to hear again.
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