Bright Wings

I search for him in the salt-stained night

and I pray for him by the white wax light

and I call to him with my poetry:

open-eyed I dream he will come for me.

A lark on his shoulder, a rose in his hand,

a starlit pavilion, a slow jazz band;

we'll dance till the sky is strawberry pink,

the new moon so dizzy she has to sink.

His kisses are red velvet, melting cream,

and I nearly hope I might net this dream –

but I blink and my bright-winged lover has flown

while I sit alone on a seat of stone.