Old Houses in Greece

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.