In one I was lost inside a creamery,
Milkjars in wooden cases surrounding me.
Another involved a sailboat within a flotilla,
On which stood my mother, wearing a blue apron.
In you I am unable to move, holding
Pebbles in my palms as if they were children.
Or a lion softly falls asleep on my back
With its claws clutched around my chest.
You are quiet, elusive, rawboned.
You ask for nothing in return.
Our friendship is a strange one:
Permanent yet unsatisfactory.
We do not hold hands walking to the train,
Or listen as the moon sings its white song.
Instead, you give me sensual mystery:
Like the girl with cerulean eyes, who ran
Laughing as I chased her across the sand.
I woke with the image of her chestnut hair,
And carried it everywhere with me
For the rest of that day.