Another tankard of you ...

Hey, it's me. I hope 

somebody's told you 

I'm an idiot,

plainspoken 

to a fault. Does that come 

from never drinking (either

to be sober, all the time, or

to learn, 

in sugars, to be drunk

on your own folly)?

Loose-lipped and 

off of tape-delay – mind & mouth 

flexing in unison, 

a nerve-netted 

anemone – at some point, I'm bound to say, 

“you're awesome”  on impulse,  and it will 

sound  silly-thin,  so    here  are  some 

pieces – 

small but then cavernous – 

of awesome in you:

     Quiet.

          You own it –

          not loud and never silent –

          humming, listening behind the gold grass,

          stalking a too-loud deer and purring

          with patient thoughts.

Calm.

          You stretch lips like

                    a moment's worth smiling for: no

                         audience to smile at, no fear to smile away –

                    showing teeth like the sun's in

          your face, melting a breeze.

     Fit.

          You stand uphill from

                                        still. Even sitting, you settle

                                                       like a sprinter in the blocks, flight-ready:

                                        inches close and 100 yards down the

          trail. I feel bound to chase you.

Hot.

          I can't help spinning on

                    just the ghost of you: you're a

                         magnet near my skin. I feel static crackling

                    not to twine my arms around your

          channels and drink you in.

     Open.

          Maybe you glimpsed it from

          behind: story-telling, you hand spreads

          New Year's wide: fingers up like surfboard noses,

          knuckles troughing down, their orange-pink

          undersides cresting on your palm.

The galaxy could roll across

a plane like that. You –

I'm sorry, I may be

drunk – are

awesome.