From rooftops smoke drifts up to a solid blue sky,
becomes clouds.  Something must fill this emptiness
after all.  

Pick up the abandoned gardening glove lying on this
pebbled plateau.  It fits your hand like a slightly larger
hand.  

Look up like the statue of David, with his hair curling
around his ears like ocean waves.  But you are not carved
in stone.   

So unfurl your brow, drop your sling, see with your heart-
shaped pupils the lines of sun & star cross, know that the giant
is inside you.  

Lift moon as it casts a jade shadow on the streets below & weds
itself to lamplight that heralds dusk over the mossy heads of passersby,
the unknowing.  

On this rooftop you can turn your palm to stigma & stamen, wield your body
to stillness, cradle firmament in valentine eyes, swim up to afternoon’s wisp-peppered vastness,  

tumble back down to this paved mesa in briny whitecap
shards, then weave them into a love song
for one.      

~inspired by Giorgio de Chirico’s painting “Love Song,” 1914