(Who is this person writing for me
when I am in my sleeping mind?
She reminds me of myself.)
Something she could hold in balance
like an unspoken word on the tip of her tongue
like the taste of summer from a small jar of strawberry jam
consumed with a spoon stamped with a moon
out at a snowfall scene.
But even closer to the fire,
surprising juxtapositions and fine lines
were the mermaid in a bathtub, the highwire tightrope synapses
she assayed in waking dream. — Annette Marie Smith