What if my thoughts of you are but the substance grown inside
The forest of my bones -- invisible but with the odor
Of a centennial spruce; the ore discovered in the mines
Inside my eyes and smelted into precious metal, glowing?
What if my thoughts of you are drawings graven onto walls
And roads; the cipher in the sentences you write; the code to
Sounds in your late night city, in iambic? Are my thoughts
Of you the substance which can't disappear, but slowly growing,
Rises as forests, from horizon to horizon; falls
As anchors in your every word to hold them in the flowing
Seconds; accumulates in mines to coin your money from
My gold; and fills your city with my signals and my drawings?