He could be anybody now.
Maybe not you or me, but just about
anybody else after the tornado
filched his wallet, the only picture
of himself, gone. He was nobody
he could think of after that
until a working girl called him, “Sailor.”

He watches the wind now
whip & ripple the sails, lift sea spray
& foam into the whirl of the sky.
He feels blessed; the wind itself,
the breath of the world, the bellow
in his chest, is everywhere unseen.
                        

I didn’t have my glasses on
so I didn’t hear you clearly
& the wind, it fluttered your words
like the sudden rise of pigeons
in a public square
while others flittered past me
like hummingbirds.

You asked again, more loudly,
if it was too windy
in the back seat
& I could see your mouth,
your Vaselined lips
framing your voice,
in the rear view mirror
& I shouted,
my glasses were off
because they were loose
& I didn’t want them blown off my face
& no, not too windy at all.
                        

Soon there will
be more tattoos

on the planet
than people,

more ink on skin
than on paper.

We are already
reading each other

more than books
or newspapers.

I am thinking
of having

X
you are here

in blood red ink
inscribed

directly
over my heart.

I am thinking
if I indelibly

mark the spot,
& leave

a permanent
note

to myself,
I will not look

for you
somewhere else.