channel crossing

morning a mirror of window

and water. sunlight fogging, freezer burning

through February gray, reflecting

off the Intercontinental with its full-blown

glassy panels until it’s so completely bright

it disappears.

still steeped in sleep. 
channel crossing out of Fort Point 
and walking to work with you.

narrow strait below 
gleaming like a wormhole

and diving in, back to bed—

back to dreaming into your shoulder

where planes don’t land,

aloft in sky a wide blue ribbon

cloudbread buffet.

bottomless Sonoma County sunsets

never touching

down. arrival, on repeat.

berth of bounty worlds away

from dark salt slush, thawing sharp

as a paper cut—

no semblance of winter

up here, on wings (the distance

your presence provides from

colder things)—

water mirrored in the window

seat, awash like points of light—

hands absolute as a parachute

and this, the morning, the walking

with you—the closest thing to flight.