In poetic language I hear us often speak
banter upon banter of what we could not
convey with little human words

so stanzas pass with very little said.
We let little words spray the page
…little words to trace the way

to my saying she is diamonds
each a hundred thousand cut
casing her incandescent

soul. To see her, my word, is to see her
turning perfect light
into multicolor skies. I

…I want this light
I want these skies
for the rest of my life.

Lo, who is speaking with words again?
I am but pointing at, unbelievable, divine things
recalling how words betray me like

when I said she shines bright
but meant just to be painting ebullient rainbows
that fill up canvas nights with technicolored auroras; pouring out of her self…

when I said she was beautiful
but meant just
look at her.