For Marina

If I were an artist
I'd paint you the world
through my eyes.
The simple grace of the
Santa Anna's through
your hair,
the stars at midnight,
and the ocean at dawn.
I'll show you Montauk in
the dead of winter
and the Pacific Northwest
in fall,
but summer will always
belong to California
(twister in July
O'Casey's in August).
One day you'll get lost
in Paris and slum in
the bohemian art lofts.
I'll travel the desert
in that used Cadillac
chasing Hunter's shadow
and plagiarizing Bukowski
in bars.
But we'll live through
these post cards and letters
and smile at the little
things.
The shared favorites.
So paint me the stars
and I'll write you in the
constellations.
'Cause one day our transient
lives will mix like the
paint on your brush.
But for now,
we have promises to keep
and miles to go before we sleep.