Shallow indigo veins marble
the translucence of my forearm -
along the underbelly of it - where
it lays flat and real against
the peeled-off paint of my
borrowed desk.

And I have decided to type
this because it's been nearly
three months since I sat down
in our hunter
green recliner here to will
my way through a poem.

Except, last time, I was in the
Toyota Sienna; the minivan
filled with soccer balls and empty
granola bar wrappers. I was to wait
for Claudia; she was inside the gentle
decay of the wooden, white
Presbyterian church in Greenwich...romping
with her fellow Jack Rabbits
through the un-air-conditioned gym.
I had meant to catch up on my sleep, but
found a pocket notebook and a pen.

So postponed my spring
siesta to bleed my ache for mountains
over the page as I plumbed
a depth of sky behind the nadir
of a gimped steeple
and its treetop transcendence.