every dog has his day.
things are good
as i am not dead yet
as the people are homebound.
the same familiar palms wave
the same dogs stray
the same birds dart in the sky
there is not much left to look at.
give me a few more years and i can
unlearn this gambit,
give me a few more years and i can
learn it again

i have a voice in my head
and they put shoulders in there
two eyes, two crazed hands
pale fingers, and in some evenings
a palpable laugh. so real i can
touch you.

and you say a manifold of things,
and apart from all of them,
one that will never leave me
even with absent eyes:
   something in me laughed
   in your arms
   and in your arms we have laughed
   each other away.

that laughter soft
that laughter raw
that laughter warm
  like light
  like life
  or a hand on my chest
  with blood running in veins
  together with the days
  across hills like wild horses
  and then
  gone -