Indifferent to Reply

The waning moon wedged between pine trees illuminating the barn. We go where we hear cries and linger, ever prostrate for whispering crossroads. One intimates, one does.

Another mention of fathers - those that rage before brick ovens, those that mistake gregariousness for love. But are you happy? You make me happy and that is what matters.

Coherence matters. We enter the dialogue like swans coming around a bend somehow aware of the surprise they will cause. Rivers make deltas and deltas suffer under aerial bombardment.

Sons and daughters and uneven distributions of power. Somehow rectified? When I kneel in the darkness and whisper your name you don't always come but I always feel better.

One's writing bent ever on achieving the holiest yes. Differences make for wild nights but it is sameness to which peace attains. Twenty bromides with dreams of a poem.

Your synesthesia is my long walk and no light. When you say Edinburgh what I hear is that early loneliness no walking could assuage. One lives a long time in the bliss of pronunciation, the sacredness of maps.

I waited lifetimes before mountains that were indifferent to reply. And now you, beautiful you.