Premonition of June

First I see blue then North America. Bristles of old brushes fall away leaving bones on this canvas. As I make your birthday painting I listen to your grandmother on the radio attempting to find you to inform me of the eyes spread over the Atlantic. Are they strangers' from here or elsewhere? Yes. We will visit Santiago. Here it is a gray dot on a long island. A place where I've found everything. Perhaps it will be the same for you the bataá congas underneath Pegasus. Oh and the women the sea in their skin palms where lilacs bloom. This June will be a door with an opal knob turn it then tumble into its house. Silver dust will fall from a dragonfly's wings as the sea ripples wave upon wave dark opening light.