words only reach so far
as the shore at low-tide,
The shape of your childhood
On the collection of memory,
Harbors docking the innocent wailing,
Dialed phone on mermaid seashells,
Only as far the bookmarked novel,
Pinched between the shelves
The echo chamber with a door;
The kitchen with Tuscan olives
And dark chlorinated pools
with no drain or stopper
Just the rich milkiness of fallen stars,
Rain like petals on flamingo floaties,
Only as far as the cul-de-sac turn
shears stained green on burning bush,
Streaked on the heavy hollow of radio whisper
TV facade like mirages in time