Such a wealth of hard, glittery stars—
the night so cold and full. Wild horses run
across the sand; in the town, tended gardens
sleep, and the bread maker and his wife under
blankets that must smell like salt and milk.
Fishermen dream of blue scales and bankers
of leathered notes. Only the wind parts
the hair of trees, slipping through oar locks,
cracks in the floor and ceiling. I lie awake
with questions only my ghosts could answer.
Once, I paused at a threshold, before I opened
the green garden gate. Once, I was perfectly
balanced between coming and going. Warm
breeze and honey-colored light. I couldn’t see
yet that dark-suited figure at the end of the road,
patiently waiting; cradling a bouquet in his arms.
In response to Via Negativa: Nomad.