Saturday, March 1, 2014


JULY

In the basement of a house in Nova Scotia
we sat together on a single dryer. Your dress
was long, the color of your eyes. It was the emerald color of your eyes. It was the color of Rimbaud's green nights.
And Lorca's green, the color of his mind. That August, in the silence of a different house, by another sea, I
played a game: if the crumpled paper thrown across the room falls in the wicker basket, this girl will be my wife. For certain then. 

WAITING

I am a little aerophobic though I have flown two dozen times.
I used to say the Sh'ma before every flight.
It is comparable to Ave Maria but not really.
I cannot sleep tonight. I am thinking about how soon

you will be in the sky, on the way to see me
among at least one other person
who will also be happy to see you.
I have never been aerophobic for another.
I have recited ancient Hebrew

for the sake of many others, but never prior
to anyone else's flight. Soon you will be in the sky.
The Jewish Ave Maria is a spontaneous
utterance you inspire.