Catching Smoke In His Hands

She reads between his sentences,
knows his lines more well rehearsed
than he could ever hope to know them;
she comprehends he cannot perceive
that his self-perception is no more solid
than catching smoke in his hands.

She looks upon him and wonders
if he can understand his wings are made
of the legendary wax, and that she at the same time
is both sun toward which he flies and yet also the sea
that will envelop him in his inevitable fall,
that will cradle him in her silver-gray-green foam
and gently rock him upon her waves of compassion
until he walks from the waters

upon some distant shore of imagination
where he shall take gently her face in his hands
and within the one single kiss when it is finally offered
there will lie the lesson of this tale
before she bades him to depart
with the cup of his longing finally filled.

He will be left standing, watching as she disappears
back into the sea that holds her name
while he wonders that when she reads these words
what will she find between the sentences
that he does not now understand
while he is so busy catching smoke in his hands.