In the morning hour nothing needs to be done.
I'd be sitting with my pen poised,
pipe in hand-
Mother and Father to the Orphan
If she were emancipated
instead of abandoned.

and my furniture is second hand.
The mourning doves assert their soliloquy for infant light
Every morning is their first

Patchouli and its siblings drift into our hall
Announcing the pride we take
In staying in place.

A man, Tyrone, lived in this apartment
His parents lived here
And Before that, I don't know.
But I have made myself at home in Tyrone's home.
And someone else's daughter's bed.

Supercessions are what keep me here.

Moving body in crowded jubilation
Floating over pain and loss and
like a wing
Covering like a wave
we bleed eternally
Dancing against each other, lost and losing caverns of infinity
With no boundary to be found in space.
Only soft boundaries,
different and repeating,
placed in time.


It was the 90s
We were in a foreign land
I was 8 and you were 5
We ate ice cream every day

We returned
I was 17 and you were 14.

Everything is old here
Do all these other people know each other?

I could hug these stones.
I would throw my body down
on these old stone streets
to feel your pulse again.