Blue Bubble Wish
In the froth of fighting light and shade.
In the splotches where they are mingled and out of which they are again made.
Swaying upon the silver strings of the Lucretian harp
Whirling within the fragrant fumes of lying verse and scattered art
That belongs not to me.
To be watched when I wonder upon the palm leaves shivering in the oleander breeze.
To walk barefoot on stones softened by the rush of a mountain rivulet.
To stand at the little red window and count the hollyhocks that nobody sees because of the roses.
To lie within a granite ...