Love Letter with Red Ink

Michael Lynch

Alone, I picture the planetary
gears that cycle behind your eyes,
your carved bone stiletto, two-handed pistol-
grip of your ambidextrous thoughts.

I winter among the abandoned beach
houses, their copper gutworks
looted. We are shuttered against seeing,
ocean furrowed out between us.

Leaning on a sea-blond scruff
of panic grass I watch gannets
light on the breakwater, remainder
marks ticked on their white edges.

Under feather, they are punched
brass and reciprocal motion,
articulated bronze armatures.
What bellows swell inside me,

push my thoughts toward you
and your precise beauties? Beneath
my skin I am empty gin
bottles and a braid of antique

electronics, an arthritic toe cloaked
in asbestos. Then your postcard:  
the harmonic drive that swoons me  
plunging toward some inward ocean.