Standing at my door
an old friend just met.
The veranda catches a shadow
still with a thick layer of dew.
Slow to talk about the real but not about
the pounding, look close, real close,
dare to see, offer the eyes, the eye
open always on the shining mind.
Breezily blowing into the kitchen
where everything revolves around a
couple of days, isn't it a gas, isn't
it a blast, or should language like that
be used?

Choose to ask the tongue once
when morning settles in to stay
brow beaten and lonely
asking her to play,
why does it turn out this way?
why does it turn out that way?

The choice brings no answers,
a frail silence, a brazen emptiness,
leading in the mystery meant to teach,
to scold, to fill,
to be bold,
to breach,
to breathe into that thing that carries  me,
one man up the endless hill, breath by breath,
no longer seeking, no longer tied to a home.