Velocities

Oh, woman with the salt wind in your mouth,
with a phalanx of gulls on their way to their fortress
in the clouds, you are a far away cirque
of purest agate at ten thousand feet – where
turquoise taught you to brood into aqua.

When you take small sips of air –
among pear trees, among orange blossoms
and tight apples – light knows your name, Ellen,
it lays down at your verge like a lion.

You’ve become finally the reverse kiss
of spring, with its velocities and dark
horsemen galloping behind your breastbone.

When you walk the wet sand, fish
celebrate nuptials in the nearest wave
in your name. Because you understand
how all bright silver things must
pull back into themselves.

Beyond all the chatter, and even
the tears, you are the scar
the plum sews onto its own skin
when sugar splits it open.
You’re brimming over.