the view from you

moon

is the view from you

a blue view wrapped

in a cloud-

shroud

or, parted brief,

the umber peaks

still untried, (some),

by none

but you?

Few, yes, and yet

I’d stake you still

will,

unperceived,

slip, slow, inside

a tight

cervical wall

and take your time

waxing there—

waxing

until you’re unrestrained

until the ruby

water pilots you away

and you smile,

once shy

now broad, round,

sounding.

I want

to give birth to you.

I want such labor

I could not

to recover from

or remain unchanged by—

while the daily persisting

sky passes by

all who came

at the crowning,

who pressed

on your full-born face

the eye

and throat

the nose

and knee

where,

see?

I will wipe dry

while you wane away

 from your brief

inundated cheek,

 my knees locked beneath

my sea

of softening

walls

until

  you, when all the world

turns away

you slip deep into me

again

and bring 

the both

of us

slow and urgent

up the shear slick cliff

toward a Lascaux

you never tire

of migrating to

and I never tire

of confining in.