Apostrophe

You are the mirage
I most want to meet.

The shape in the fog, the voice,

my own personal
figure
of speech.

You’ve got a rose in your teeth

words 

like hooded falcons

the big gaze
of a shepherd watching
a meandering flock of stars.

Possessive, you’ve held
onto things I couldn’t—

the fathomless face of night, the light
in the sextant’s 

half-silvered mirror.

I thought you’d know me anywhere

after we spoke
of so many things
and you sent the small ships
of my new-fangled words

out of port.

The women are singing again,
wearing the rocks’
green weeds for dress.

Come back.