In the cool of the morning a tower of mist collapsed around us.
The stones plunged down and she said: Build on wheels.
Whales breeched through the white mask that swung across the harbor.
Her silence was as aggravating as her speech.
My car wouldn’t start.
She said: Love is variance in love’s absence.
I let out a long inaudible yell.
They call me Catskill Mike, I said at the restaurant.
I limped along the shore, a dry flutter of owl feathers, now that the rain was
obscured by clouds.
The leaves rolled by on the trees and the trees rolled by on the nameless hill.
Where are you taking me, I asked.
The fish sparkled in the echo of waves, rode the waves and their wonders.
An olive tree, where no one lives, will burst into song, leaves flashing fish.
If you were a ghost, she said, you could see the luminous fluids of the skunks, as
they dance like dust through the abandoned houses.
I asked: is this a funeral?
My speeches were a matter of Eros, gathering in what I could.
She whispered through a piece of dust: it smells like Juniper. Statues.
Nightingales. The wonderful month of May.
Her breath spun a small golden wheel from the stillness of my ceiling.