Where is the King?

I would paint you with the smell of crushed lilies 
And bits of broken china,
With sticky, sweet reds like carafes of wine
From the warm, basement bar stinking of French cheeses.

I would dip my toes, my arches in ink and dance over velvet
Like Salome to the rumble of your voice reading in my ear.

I’d make your likeness of suffused amber poured through
Charcoal like a city street if I could swallow it and wring it
From my hair in the morning

But these orchid hands cannot hold fire, and you are
So far, so far, so far from here
In your heather house.

I tap your rhythm but I do not sing.
I am no minstrel and one does not call
The King to court,
Only hope that his sails will fill and bring me
His true form soon.