If he could see you now. Really see you. Take you entirely in. As you are now, in these days, places

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

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.

Remember that one day you, too, will die. Will cease being here, in body, in breath. Will join all those

I’m glad for mine. The long, aquiline form of it. The way it has shaped, informed my face;

While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.

What we belong to. What we can point to out there; around us. And what a singular gift. Our innate sentience.

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

It arrives on a warm white cloud. It arrives on soft rolls of ocean waves along a sand pebbled shore. It arrives on a bed

Red lights flaring like Roman candles at empty intersections. Headlights wanding like blind men’s sticks

The Maine woods. The coastal woods. Where coming into Spring he resides, is at home. Where he keeps a fire burning

The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.

Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,

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