For the last few years
I've lived by the water
and when I come home
from work I grab a bottle
to pour something from
and shut my eyes
to sip it or something
like that I look like
I'm dozing off but not
really because I'm a star
you think is a moon
that is moving like
the water I live on
sitting up in my bed
ashamed of the books
left in outlines and
shadows in the shade
where I draw a breath
all thirsty for the unread.

I met the man by chance on that riverside town.

The only one around at the deserted strand
I asked him the shortest way out
after I had my fill of the river.

He told me about the fish market
where the fresh catches arrive every morn
and the place ten minutes farther north
where if I slowed down
could catch the magnificent spectacle
of the orange orb thirstily dipping in the river
and if I stayed back for the night
would surely go insane
when the moon sets the river on silver fire
but if I was really intent on leaving
a half hour's drive would get me the highway.

I was thinking of the amazing mathematical probability
of my traveling over three hours to see the river
and his traveling ten minutes on a bicycle
to fetch his son from school on that riverside town
for our once-a-lifetime meeting on the life's highway
and then having him a permanent visitor in my memory
at sunsets and moonrises over the river.

Three times so far
This week
I have felt
His thoughts run
Electric
Along my body.

I can't see
His face.

Can't say for certain
What direction
The thoughts travel
From

Just my luck
To feel
And be blind
All at the same time

A storm is brewing in the east
and a white bird is flying high,
like the shadow of smoke
from the last fires in the moonlight,
lying crossways over the bed
on her belly in dark *******,
whatever she is dreaming
its meaning she keeps to herself.

I've been seeing
That old hawk
In some very strange places.

Feathers askew

Too tired
To fly above the storm

My messenger
Has something to say

But he is too weary
To spill it
Just now