A man rides his bicycle on the sea. Salt rubs the tires. Sun reflects on the soles of his shoes.

A frosted cake layered with cars and people, rosetted with gulls, points out toward quiet afternoon islands.

Fog pours in through the half-open windows. Fills our small bedroom by the bay. Pools

If he could see you now. Really see you. Take you entirely in. As you are now, in these days, places

How deeply are you living, friend? How sense-deep. How heart, and

Who wore a green plastic visor the color of a ginger ale bottle. Who had a raspy voice and Charles Coburn kind of face. A forever bachelor

I’m glad for mine. The long, aquiline form of it. The way it has shaped, informed my face;

Motoring solo through the immense, silent, parted heart of the forest of Chinon. The birdsong air

While countries, armies and ideologies battle, bees make honey. Butterflies float, and drink the nectar from gently open flowers.

Circa ‘50s Wichita. Your mother, Gladys, going for her blue rinse,

Your rare, cured leaves of being. Beautifully steeping in these years of living. Bringing to your senses rich

Between the keys. Between the chords. Between the notes. Between the sound you make

You, Picasso aigu in your summer straw shading blue eyes and sailor stripes, juggling a bubble of cold wine.