April 6th, 2014

And this morning the way the sun shone through all the windows was a taste I had been seeking and I opened my mouth and savored the dusty silence of beams. A man walks his dog. He is from the early 2000s and so is his goatee, now white, though his face is lineless and still glazed with youth. His dog stops to ponder the border of the sidewalk. His dog stops to smell the dirt. He is patient and he smiles down at the dog. I love this man and his goatee, and that is not an exaggeration. I love, and he is the manifestation of all things in this moment, and so from my second floor room my love falls on him. He feels it nearly, lifting his eyes, but he cannot see me in this room that is the same color as the light that floods it. I put back up all the poems about you that I took down. It has nothing to do with now, but I am old enough to say remember when, and to read again the love, the way it swelled and pooled and rushed in and drew out, the way it really was like an ocean full of salt and life and slowly moving plants, it was good, good, to see this and say, yes. Yes. This happened. I did not imagine it. My love, I wish you well. When the taste of your salt has finally left my mouth, I will be able to give the pith of these poems to another. But the old will remain, and I am comforted by this thought, even though I own nothing you gave me any more.