The looming grey of your promise
Hangs heavy above our heads
As does that glimmer of hope you hide:
Hope forever present but rarely seen.

the shamrocks bleed.....Ireland's countrymen gang wars, slaying each others' dreams

I will stop
saying your name
as if it is a goodbye
as long as you don’t stop
chasing after my fingers
when I am about to leave

A night of reckoning, calculations repeated-checked, sums divided,
did I use too many, or not enough, words to be understood, verbiage eloquent, did daytime reveal my poetic meanings, or double-occlude it’s essence?

haven’t reckon’d that Earth
and I will be entwined/entombed
in each other’s arms, until such time,
one of us or both, will be reduced
to cosmic dust, our pride, our poems,
will be equally unimportant and irrelevant,
I reckon.

I have reckon’d Manhattan Isle,
circumnavigated its riverbed boundaries,
a younger me, by kayak rounded it,
from the Spuyten Duyvil Creek to the Battery,
14,500 acres give or take, a lifetime
to complete a dead reckoning,
an unfinished full configuring

Love is patient.
Love is .... slow.

Love doesn't hurry.
Love doesn't celebrate brevity,
it doesn't interupt,
it doesn't rush.
Love refrains from finishing
your sentence,
and never jumps
to the punchline.
And love loves
a long shared lunchtime.

Love is happy to hesitate.
Love slows the pace
for the slowest of us.
Love - always - waits,
always protects,
always - makes - space.

The greatest love is slow
patience.

Day
Arrives
With
New Possibilitie Slipping
                              Under
                              Nocturnal's
                              Sacred
                              Eternal
                              Timecapsule.