Whether you're
on the Pacific
with tide pools at
your feet,
ankle deep in
muddy, brûlée
sand, crab
shells empty with
the evidence of
ocean time,
or you're standing on
a stage inside
a hall, instrument
in hand to play the bow-
tides of the orchestra,
cases empty with
the evidence of
opera time,

and whether I'm in
the city,
gunshots and nomads and
locking the windows at night,
or I'm back in the valley
where the screens have fallen out the windows
now and
the cicadas
sing like a choir
and you're their God

I'm resigning to loving
you,
             endlessly

defeated and in bliss, admitting
love.