Salamandrine

I try to write the words of your body
musclewood, half-tuned
toward and away, steep
these sweeps of turquoise, spiraled and steepled
highway curve rolling over toward a lover
rhomboids yielding a shoulder to the sunlight
bank of asters
water standing up inside
the locked bar, the sealed dairy queen
speaking of hope or hopeless
in the same language, the frogs
still number millions
a moving .38 special
stunned train, split fruit, trick mirror
porchlight couldn’t properly coat
your body even if made
into a series of gasps
sitting round as robin’s eggs in a nest
like stars that have retired
into speech after trying to grasp universal truth
if you were mist, the downwind fallout
palacious, salacious
I’d fill my bank accounts later and my harbor first
who said God would
a) not sleep through the night
b) trickle down rather than rise up
abalone all alone and still
who said God wood wouldn’t burn bright and long
the world couldn’t properly coat
still, I’m left almost with a voice.