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

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

Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make

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

Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air

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

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

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

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

You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.

Blonde head under baobab. Sun under shade. You sit on an African day,

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

Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich

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