The keys to the house, or car. The address of a restaurant. The grocery list. The name of a tree or bird or passing acquaintance.

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

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

My body. Outstretched. On a deck. Between the Sky and the Earth.

The limpa from Scandinavia. The ciabatta, and the michetta from Italia, also known as Rosetta. The mantou from China.

Blonde head under baobab. Sun under shade. You sit on an African day,

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

It arrives on a warm white cloud. It arrives on soft rolls of ocean waves along a sand pebbled shore. It arrives on a bed

The only thing warm tonight in the deep winter sky ~ and soon to occlude. The Wolf Moon, Ice Moon, Old Moon.

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

Back in time, a romantic era of English Time, they used to send a son or daughter off

Of my family name. One day, 150 years ago. In a Castle Garden where Jenny

After you uncork him and he appears in a serpentine of white smoke. Before he grants you

The courtly old lady, widowed for decades, and her calico cat, who take each afternoon sun