For Your Eyes Only

this day you are gone,

next day too.

The ache when you are gone

is akin to the balm

when you are near.

Ions join and part,

part and join.

My nerd, my lamb, my lark,

Mine.

When you have left to work,

I am a half, not a full

and feel the loss in each waxy bone

like the warp and weft

of the hull of a ship

who has felt

too big a wave.

My nerd, my lamb, my dove,

Mine.

I do not see the sun rise.

The sun sets—a vial of inks

upon the kohl page

of the sea.

In a daze,

the rise of the moon

is all neon and lace.

All is not lost,

it is just half

or less.

Left at home,

I'm a Zen koan

with no free zone

to live it.

I'm a left deaf ear

in the echo of a harp,

an oboe with no lips to play,

a mime with no limbs to move,

a meta iamb line of word to an eye

that does not read.

But it is not so bad.

You come back home

(to your half poet)

at the end of the week.

When you do,

I will hear many a tale of

the fix, form and sell of

lens, base and tube

to span the land,

for the iris near and far,

fine and grit.

When you walk in the door,

ions will join and join,

our lids and lips will meet

you will see each cell of me

then I will be at once

a moon in the eye of a star.

My nerd, my lamb, my jay,

Mine.