Today. I’m pausing. And choosing. To break through wherever I’m hostile
As I awakened to this morning, eyes still closed, I was thinking of you, long-gone Mom and Dad,
Remember that one day you, too, will die. Will cease being here, in body, in breath. Will join all those
Sunny jaunts, now-and-again treats, with cousins, siblings; and parents along but somehow invisible.
The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.
Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools
While the town sleeps and dreams behind me. And pined islands lay silently, invisibly off the salt-tongued shore.
The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.
Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,
After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you
It was a wet signature. Full of emotion. Full of eroticism. Still wet, with sweat
A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.
The keys to the house, or car. The address of a restaurant. The grocery list. The name of a tree or bird or passing acquaintance.
Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off
The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning
