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

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

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

After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you

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

When the Moon moves between our Sun, Earth and up-raised eyes, through the long-held breath of our wisdom-keepers,

To ask your Self. In the still of the night, whether bright-starred or half-mooned. In the midst of the day,

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

The tender new leaves of the trees, emergently green. The white feathers of the wading egret.

The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun

Those many, sung and unsung, who gave themselves, often gave up their lives, to fight, in wars,

All the way. Your eyes, senses, sensibilities. Fill them

Yes. And the rivers. The wind and the rain. The wildflowers. The marshes

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

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