"No matter where you are," I wrote, "you sit

brightly imposed on the indefinite

nebular storm of my vast inner-lid."

Love was once a wish to close a distance

between opposite corners of a dance

party: Bathroom light, face in brief bloom,

I'd stared a dotted line across the room;

a look like love-letter, its poignance tied

to distance (you lose the thrill supplied by

teeter-totters when sitting side-by-side).

Burned, sure; but does heat or closeness bear blame?

Consider the campfire that holds your eye:

Wall to canyon wall, valleys night undid

might be redone by distancing from flame.