The scab of water that browned around the burner
when you left the room. The smudge of lipstick on the rim
of the coffee mug. The line of foundation she left on your
collar, when you touched.
Take off the day and go
for a drive, look at the clouds through the sun roof.
Sing at the top of your register on a search for
Take off your shoes and stay awhile, clothes
and stay a lot longer, your skin
so I can touch your soul. Fingers wet
tracing the smell of gasoline.
Take off. Burst through the atmosphere
throttle through, against the force
of your limitation.
Take off the gravity of what we say is possible.
© 2009 Andrew Kooman