All These Rooms

In the streetlight four
porcelain cups on the curb
carefully placed.
Momentarily ruin dares not court
their strict white, the soiled language of concrete,
the way one could not slip a sheet of paper
between the two.
Consider the spring-stunned plumeria,
the florescent bath of nonsense
striping the night from the waste up.
Bare-breasted night, lime-leaf night,
night of a thousand catfish
feeding on the surface of […]

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are like the lighthouse song
effortless the
“I too am here in the night
where many things shine.”

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Do you remember the July we slept
at Kalaloch? One morning,
at dawn, I saw a bald eagle but didn’t wake you.
I needed to be alone with a thing near extinction.
whose life was meaningful by design,
by my own dull recognition of it.
I write by this excuse: to tell you
last night I heard an artist speak about your […]

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