I understand that you are
  illustrated?

  Maybe you lost the forest in a boat,
    and the boat shared your legs
   with the water. But honestly, stranger,
you're only more beautiful

  for it. Can you see your own
throaty canyon, widened smoky hills?
  Can you see the jet-trills? bubbling along
     envelope crease-lines - I've seen them. I've seen your writing in
the muscular swallow of the sky and the
flat, grisly shore-breast, and

  how it
runs down
slipping, jaw-clench
Vulcan faces
displaces rhyme to the bruised places. Can you

    see? it's halting the toothy faucet-drip
  in someone's cold sink. It's unpicking a
smile in cottony cheeks, it's slipping significance under
  blue. Someone at your side is a
  cupped silence, someone lives
        next to your wordbrick towers
    rains on your sonnet flowers
and quenches your splitting land like a tongue
to paper, palms on salty water. In all of this I want to

ask it: where's the smoke-sign dedication? where's
  the Morse-code dripping, dit-dash replies to
    trickle down your smile again?
  well here comes the rain, here it comes. Here it comes,
I understand, I do, I

  understand that the slide of light across your face
     means poetry; under your watch,
       faces learn to search for beauty. I understand the
   inside-out of the colder ink, your dripping sink, and
the playground on your doorstep, with one cherry-foot
in the hall, I understand

  that you are illustrated,
               and I think it suits you.