I keep a gulp of your words in a glass blue
bottle I bought in Paris when I wasn't thirsty.
Five Euros seemed a fair price
to catch indigo light at my window,
even if it meant slurping bitter soda water.

I don't keep everything you say,
but only what is speckled and clear and smooth and bright.
Each evening I pour tap water through the neck,
and whisper words of hope that something might grow.

A flower? A bud?
What I'd really like is a poem,
an organism whose cells sprouted from the best pieces of you.

I don't think poems should be anything but beautiful.
Pollen filled tulips, more petal than stem.