View from the Max Bar

From the cobbled stone

on an incline,

cinched between

two streets

of rowed houses,

my table

one of many

in the delta square

partly shaded

by the red umbrellas

where I see you

almost for the first time

raised, above the crowd,

growing larger

approaching my seated face,

yours, in parallel

recognizing the greeting

and its voice.

Postcard no. 3

On the balcony-

the aging sun

and thoughts of

other lives

and our own,

made and unmade

all bringing us

to the single moment

of evening.

Counter-part of Forgetting

The day unravels

Morning--

the few fringes of

life lived

Future days: lost, or

already missed

My eyes

tightly weave

the hours earthly web

To be like the back of a carpet

the pattern in reverse

revealing the image

and its second life.

Motion

These days

beat upon the skin

of a drum

and are kept there

among other voices

unlike sidewalks

always bringing

feet closer

before letting go.

These days

the screen

that keeps us from sinking

into soft ground

into the tired fires

of inwardness

because they are themselves

unmoved

and know only

stillness.