We speak of life as an oboe

speaks, in Summer colors

stirring the orchards

playing the windchimes by the door.

You put the telephone down

and your voice hangs

a little cloud of new rain

over the cold and restless sea.

I cannot hope to disconnect.

How can a man admit he loves

so well, so hopelessly

these clouds that only turn

maybe hover

do not descend, never touch.

Now birds are rising in the dial tone

with a motion as still and breathless

as the respirations of a dying seal.

A squadron of great brown pelicans

is lifted from the harbor

to investigate the coming night.

If they will watch the sky for me

maybe I can sleep.

— Kyle Kimberlin

I wrote this love poem about 10 years ago. It was entirely uncalled for, but what the hell, it’s what I do. Can’t be helped.