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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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