Ripples and Porpoise — Gotts Island-2017 — photograph by Ben Weinberg

Draw me near,
draw me in.

Ninth grade English.
as far off as seen through the wrong end of a telescope
but aching clear.
Face curtained by a wave of hair
drawing with her pen on her jeans.
Peace signs,
scraps of song;
“song sung blue”
“searching for a heart of gold”
“I can see clearly now”.
She looked up,
saw through me.
Innocently continued.
Around her knee and up her thigh.
“Can you see?” she asked.

I stammered,
looked away,
guilty of something.

The bell rang.
She smiled.
I’d paint her wistful now.
I followed schedule and routine
but wondered.

How it might feel if each word
were written on my skin,
clear then fading
but not forgotten.
Drawing me near and drawing me in.

I know the lines by heart,
but write again, that I might recall
those words that draw me near and draw me in.

As I wander, perhaps, I’ll find you one a windswept afternoon,
waiting by the sea
under fantastic clouds and soaring hawks
you’ll draw me near,
with designs in your heart and fingertips,
draw me in with sacred runes and symbols.

From afar, I feel your intent casting loops and whorls
fingerprints on the mirror of my soul.
Shifting nearer,
ink-stained pawprints,
creeping close.
Drawing nearer, drawing in.

The wind among the curtains
aligns sun slants,
paints patterns of light and shadow on the wall.
Echoes of your prose.

Later, we’ll compose;
patterns of limbs,
poetry of breath.
Nothing deleted, no revision
just written as it comes.
Heads bent close,
your hair about me like a wave,
we’ll read together
the dice we’ve thrown
the runes we’ve cast,
the prose written on our skin.

Drawing us near
and drawing us in.

Writer, walker, poet, educator. Commercial fisherman, builder, donut maker, organic grower. Boston, U. City, Maine, South Africa, Madrid.

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