Blink Once.

At fifteen I was what's called bookish--
I had a recurring dream of an owl
lecturing on the Surrealists,

and I always woke from it happy.
I spent that entire summer running
the projector in the library basement--

silent movies for the kids on vacation,
cold coffee and fritters on a table
for the grownups. The films were fragile

and old and everyone laughed
when Buster Keaton fell in love. I had
the whole day to think and my thoughts

all felt sculpted, I worked that hard
on each one--chiseled and rasped.
I spent evenings reading in my room,

listening to thunder. Sometimes a firefly
would stray through the broken screen
and I'd wake in the night to its beacon,

its clumsy flight. I'd say oh, Buster Keaton,
I'm still too young and our love
is forbidden. Your body's a lamp

and I'm a boat far out at sea.
Can you wait for me, my moonbeam, my
daffodil? Blink once if you will.