This is what she looks like:
	By day she's blinding sulight on the waves.
By night she's phosphorescence.
	And in between
she's a school of fishes wrought in silver.
	Her eyes, I remember now,
are not the color of the water,
	but the fertile hue of the earth.

Should you meet, take a message:

I would lash my port
	to leeside of a merchant schooner
Like Jean Laffite,
	and slash my way aboard.
I'd steal jewels for her,
	hashish and jade from Thailand,
cut the king's banner from the rigging,
	and run her Jolly Roger in the trade winds.
Oh yes I would!

But I'm just a little kid playing with knives.

Still, when I am not awake
	I may hpe to hear the language
of whales and starfish
	Spanish dubloons, horses drowning,
		and all the other treasures lost at sea.

If I'm very lucky we'll talk again
	when I can afford to lose my mind.

But tell her that I think of her
	every time it rains,
when memory washes down the guter
	and out past New Orleans.
Tell her
	I still sleep beside the shadow
that she left me,
	and listen for stars
that wink
	like dep brown eyes through clouds,
		like a beacon for a homesick pirate.

I could hope, but htat's a fools game.

All the same, I could.

(c) 1997 Hardy Crazy Rabbit

I’ll press the onyx button and let the steel spring
	open, bright as a night full of neon.
"But you can only cherish what you’re bound to lose,
	if not through death, 
then to the moultings of staying alive."

After which I’ll kneel in prayer
	and carve your name in the sidewalk.
"She’s not just a memory," I’ll tell the fool,
	and scratch the legend of myself beside you.
Then I’ll buy the man a drink.

This is the wine
	of which Christ and Lazarus had only a sip.
This is what you get
	when they roll away the stone
		and you stumble, still buzzed
into sunlight.

Her hands wave the clouds.
	Her body the wind.