When blindness does not take hold,
as in the past
and assuredly
at an approaching
point, your voice
is a wish to be my anchor—
dark blue and warming.
When your will for water
rises onto my countenance,
cheering through
the gray lines of
eye-white evaporate,
in a tiny mirage of golds
suffused: this
personal study
for salvation-grace;
When shooting dances surround
our conjoined
orange heart,
traces crisp,
traces hesitation..
You await by twin endtips
cornering my silent smile.