Fermata

You’re the spiral’s eye, sky-blue balloon let-go-of,   blood in the water, turning fermata, chairs stacked to the ceiling. You’re fog on   the hand-mirror, wind through the highway window. You’re the gills of a carp   looking up at the rippling moon, mouth open. You’re the spinning cloud in me,

  creak in each swing on the playgrounds, space between raindrops, a ghost   putting on clothes. You’re the moth inside the lightbulb, fluttering,   your shadow morphing massive on the papered walls of this room   a storm surrounds.

You’re a dream city   I bike through in the dark, my headlamp powered by pedaling. I have to keep   moving away to make anything, even the fences, seen.