I  cannot see the lake below the cliff.
The overlook is dressed in fog white. The only tree
visible has a red fox squirrel fleeing a territorial
grey squirrel chasing, jealous of his female poets.

Many times I have come here to use the cliff
as a spring board to past relationships, seeking poetry,
and this morning is awash with editorial
finches singing solos, choir notes, duets.

Pinky, a nickname for her skin tones, resides
in this vastness as white as an empty page
moans rather than speaks in rhyme.
I recreate an image of her face.

Emptiness returns. It is she who hides
rather than perform front and center on this stage
that is my life. I sit for a long moment,  time
enough to remember how in our naked embrace

she always refused to open her eyes.