I shift in my sleep and dream-sing 

the green parrots. 

Let the crystal veil of rainfall drop

through sun.

Let light through thunder drum

to knowing. 

This morning, 

the dog gave birth inside the dirty old 

pool shed with inflatables all around 

and tender blanket 

underneath. 

Her name is Como Tú. 

“Like you,” it means, a joke 

that makes more sense in this 

tongue and 

this you. 

Here the turquoise questions drifting past

finally find a place to ask:

When is a bay no longer a bay? 

And when is it the sea. 

That cresting hill still draped in undergrowth — 

how hard is it to climb up? 

How hard is it to go with someone else and

how hard is it to come back 

still you

still me

como tú

como siempre

forever and ever 

and ever?