While you were flying to Hawaii, I was eating breakfast,
two eggs over medium, home fries, biscuits,
at Camellia Do-Nut; while you slept in the airplane seat,
and clouds obscured the bright blue below your window,
I was telling my class a poem moves
in multiple dimensions. When you awoke,
stretching from your dream of a gold-domed city
like Jerusalem, and gazed at the Pacific,
rubbing the back of your neck with your long fingers,
I was driving home, singing to the radio playing love songs.
And as you landed, safe in Honolulu, the soft air
kissing you, a ring of flowers on your shoulders,
I drifted alone into my house, your arm lifting
around me, lightly wrapped around.