The perfect world is a sea, your eyes,
Only so, like timed on moments to flicker, no
Way in obligation a whisper.
Your sea eyes, they are sea eyes
Because they are blue, and tinged
With emerald green glass.
Your voice does not whisper; if it
Speaks it has the voice of the chaos
Of something shattering, like a vase
Or an oil lamp.

Your chaos is always in the midst, but so distant.
I always played as a boy in your shore,
And tickled sediments and shells and critters alike afloat.
I always longed to sail for you, my dear,
To get through vast storms and witness the
Essence of the rip of torrents; emerald
Green foam, in the gray, black sky,
Into white, blue air.

Sometimes I reminisce about how I cannot reach you,
For the end of your own, to reach mastering-land in
The end. I think, I shall never reach
Into her and pull out treasures to teach about, nor
Enrich her vastnesses, nor form man or woman out of her.
I think, Angels and nymphs never skimmed her surfaces,
They flew right over her and left her to grow like this beautiful, ancient breath.
Nothing, not even smoke, could make such kisses.