Broken clouds, patches

of August brightness, cut grass

fragrantly drying.

Couples are slow to

call it a day, a summer,

pick themselves up, leave.

Lingering kisses.

Being alone, take yourself

with a pinch of salt.

“Only a face can lie” Jean-Luc Marion

The godsend of your

beautiful face can be hard

to take. I avoid

looking you in the

face—that is, your eyes, black pools

where others have drowned.

“Thou shalt not kill,” calls

your whole voluptuous self.

“Just try to love me.”

“…only flesh spiritualizes…”’—Jean-Luc Marion

Work-in-Progress

Occaisionally

cats cross my path, look away

back into the bush.

Sometimes they stare me

down. I like cats, but not when

they’re invisible,

saturated selves,

dependent on my rude gaze

giving them faces.

I’m not fair to cats—

no fault of their’s their faces

are faces I’ve loved.

I sit in moist grass

it’s softer than the day’s long

sails fewer now it’s late

enlarging the bay

but I’m drawing closer to

what it’s like to kiss

you, and be kissed by

you, as we quick come about

and open our eyes.

the old guy who sits

looking out over the Bay

counting syllables

as the sun goes down.

Would I recognize him? No.

Egrets croak desire

in the drying salt

grass. A dog walks by again

leading a young thing,

and I wave, losing

count. The world dovetails any-

way, we’re in the mix.

Why do my eyes dim

as I look at the evening

star shine in the haze?

Across the water,

that small prick of light to come,

shadow of desire.

I think of you now.

This old flesh is refreshed as

when you appeared this

morning on the bus.

You gazed from the window, you

did not hide your face.

There is this one thing

I come down here to be with

creak of gull, wash of

wave, my own silence

among them. Across the water

as it grows darker,

a name repeated,

it could be anybody’s,

though it’s not too late.

Dogs bark at nothing,

the edge of what we can’t know

shines above us all.

Only visible

from anywhere on this coast

blazes this one cloud

summer’s production

on view above crinkled blue

but only this once

time’s saturation

some Sunday painter‘s rough sketch

(in praise of nightfall)

Drawn to the water’s

edge, we watch the light changing,

the far regatta

taking one last turn

toward home. It’s the best part

of the summer day.

A few of us wait

for the first stars to show the

unimaginable.

Bay and sky as one

late afternoon washed-out light

nothing between them

all one horizon

I join the sitters gathered

after summer rains

separated us

and try to find words beyond

see you tomorrow