if I took my feelings and spun them long
into threads of all sorts of marv'lous shades;
ran my hands all across those coiled, strung, strong
as light catches gold; if the thrum-thrum fades
as a hollow sort of heartbeat, yielding
beneath the pads of my fingers to slip
free, in splays of silver and sun-setting
to be braided, to weave a ruby lip—
or, perchance, contents of a lazuli mind,
the darkness of a forever-set star;
tiny, valiant guards of the ocean's rind,
or dawn's rosy fingertips from afar—
if i were to do that and more for thee,
wouldst thou bother to peer beyond to see?