Friday, March 17, 2017



What were you chanting  
from down the dry well
of our German coffee maker? 

A brusque Gute Nacht masking
the finesse required to defeat
the hinged plastic lid?

Begging bus fare
for the Silk Road

even without mornings
bracing first cup.
A caution, then? 

Don’t leave bags unattended?
Know the warning signs of stroke?
Sleep like a baby, use two-step

Your cloistered solitude,
fringed bulb of abdomen

whispered tonsure,
solitary choirmaster dwarfed
by cathedral walls

soaring graduated
into heavenly gloom
where I hovered on high,

my nightly routine
to summon The Flood,
deigning to lower

a spoon of salvation
while you wove a gossamer

the eight tiny shuttles
of your batons.

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