Imaginary

This morning, the sun on the porch

is just the cool side of warm,

and the little hula girl on the patio table

drinks light and shimmies her toy hips

while the crows bicker about us,

while the cats curl through our legs

and I tell you about yellow ginko leaves

and why they remind me of you.

You aren’t here, not today.

Today, you tell me you are imaginary.

You are a wisp of an image

swaying like the hula girl

in the steam that curls

off my coffee cup,

and vanishes just as quick

but I wish you were.

I imagine the spring light

in your wild hair, the music you make,

the poetry you fill my mouth with,

my fingers and my mouth,

I imagine my mouth

full of yellow ginko, full of your tongue.

If I imagine you

real, would you be real?

Be real, so I can tell you of the poem

I’ve picked out for your hip.

Be real, so I can translate the debate

and bicker of crows to you.

Be real, unbrushed and wild, be real

so when I cease to imagine and start to long,

you are what my fingers can grasp.

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