Ungathered stars at 3 a.m.
We who are borderless must surrender all maps.
The requisite quartz is never not in your hand.
A song about shoes, a song about highways.
A lonesome cry in the hours before dawn that reaches no ears but God's.
As a child I often swung on gates.
There are old houses in Greece that we must visit, you and I.
Days after Mariah leaves, kicking around the fire we made, I find this long black hair tangled in the grass.
The cats trouble a dragonfly.
Hummingbirds visit the phlox and in my dreams I get to watch them feed their young.
One half a broken Robin's egg.
We are not in an environment, we are the environment.
Behold the cosmic ha ha.
I remember how you slipped your shirt off, that motel in Albany, and how involuntarily I moaned.
Twilight anywhere is a manageable loveliness.
We don't end but go on, even after so-called death, or so one hopes being at last face to face with it.
Paint me into your life a last time, won't you?
One last kiss.
He waits on the mail, the man without shoes and goes - as so often we must who wait - disappointed.
She smiled after, an intimation of shyness at odds with what went before.
Or so one writes, being dead tired, sad, and without meaningful correspondence of any kind.
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