The long and winding road is white with dust,
kicked up on our shoes. No music here
unless you count the birds’ music,
the solitude. Rest your hand on my shoulder.
This is not a time to brood.
This is a time for mood music,
though I prefer words,
those dodgems dancing around the fairgrounds.
In the morning,
your toothpaste will taste of mint,
and we will promise to love each other forever,
without music or highfalutin words.
Written on Water
Making this fresh start clears the air,
that anything can happen feeling
the drunk longs to share,
the drowning man imagines.
I write my histories,
the lies Plato reckoned.
Wiser Aristotle sits on my shelves,
waiting for Hannah Arendt’s calm smile.
I know the Gods are there,
but their dance is part of the imperium,
and the Mount of Olives
is the landscape I yearn to find,
making this fresh start and going nowhere,
a minor figure in the procession.