Quite a sight to behold: a woman of sun, reclining on the grass, in a meadow, abundantly recumbent, hair and limbs lush with heat

You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.

Each time you breathe in the Earth’s air, the life-giving air, you breathe out a cocktail of

How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and

Blonde head under baobab. Sun under shade. You sit on an African day,

Who wore a green plastic visor the color of a ginger ale bottle. Who had a raspy voice and Charles Coburn kind of face. A forever bachelor

A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.

My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.

At precisely 9.25. When the moon, the first and most abundant one of the new year,

It was a wet signature. Full of emotion. Full of eroticism. Still wet, with sweat

Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools

Be still now with the Earth. Still with the Sun, the Land, Sea

However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,

A frosted cake layered with cars and people, rosetted with gulls, points out toward quiet afternoon islands.

Land dwellers. Sea rovers. Tillers. Spelunkers. Before you ask the questions many ask; have asked since man