96.

You watch the dying light after the star

Is dead, something that is but is not,

And I see you by the window by the sea

And all seems like a force, palpable

But not tangible, verbs turned adjectives

The hair of a dead grandmother in a case

Refracting light our eyes cannot see.

Love is a cosmography, a strange

Mathematics of desire and memory.

Your mind reflects on itself, a beauty

Poets can only hope for, the sun on your sleeve.