The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.
The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.
After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you
Quite a sight to behold: a woman of sun, reclining on the grass, in a meadow, abundantly recumbent, hair and limbs lush with heat
To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the 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 sure sign of soon-coming Summer. Another sweet, salt-aired Summer.
However tender, and moist. The golden skin, supremely crisp. The stuffing,
The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun
It was a wet signature. Full of emotion. Full of eroticism. Still wet, with sweat
Maybe, like Marcel, Monsieur Proust, in Paris, it begins with a bite of a madeleine.
If he could see you now. Really see you. Take you entirely in. As you are now, in these days, places
