In a Monet I’m touching ghosts.
I find some other cheek to kiss.
It is my own, 
glimmering on the shoreline, 
still as a dream. Find another sky 
to hold me down, settle me into 
something domestic, 
something proud. 
Wander the cliffs searching years
within myself for things to abandon,
gifts of mine to offer the wildflowers,
pieces of my fortress whom crumble
off, faces made of chalk.
Arches like gates to a heaven
within myself, find the sediment
growing in my bones. 
Crush my remains, thin into paint,
become the stories I seek,
brush hands with a memory,
carry the feeling onwards past
the coast who gave this gift to me,
vows trailing with the rainclouds
to wash me, like canvas, clean.