The zoology of the moment eluded me.
Mosquito hawks, perhaps,
But they clouded in the soft light of sunrise
Over Del Lago, east looking west,
Over the paleness of the lake’s milky morning surface,
Where herons basked with placid grace,
Nipping beak under wings,
Setting off on their heavy cadence of flight
In twos;
Only vaguely aware of each other,
Under dual crescent moons of eclipsed embrace,
The gently rustling fury of feathers,
Or of breath.

And the mosquito hawks, perhaps,
Sleepless also,
Unwilling to drift through the opening of the balcony door,
Like the wariness of Parisian glances
Even in the charm of spring:
Waiting, gazing,



The small son is in on the secret.
In the shiny nylon of his tiny red jersey,
He cocks his smooth, round head back
And smiles fully at me from the next table.
He licks his fingers, his lips and sways serenely
To the joyous notes spilling sweetly from the three amigos:
Habla me, habla me, habla me…

The row of gold teeth that the guitarista smiles,
The springtime Christmas lights over the rows of margarita glasses,
The rhinestones on the singer's fretting hand--
All of this shines light,
Which is what the bright, black eyes of my little compadre know:
That I wear the glow of you invisibly
Everywhere I go.


North of Hall

To have come here alone, beneath the canopy
Of dull western light and dying leaves
This bench gives a panoramic triptych of foliage:
The stooping pecan tree’s speckled green,
The massive birch’s amber bows,
And a hackberry’s outspread blast of yellow
Against the muddy slate of shadowy-still water
To smell the rotting leaves
And finish another daytime here
Is as much as time provides


Because I cannot always go with you,
Because the light gathering on night-blackened raindrops
Will dry into dust-smudged circles on glass,
Because the fading light of springtime afternoons
Will not always be so close at hand,
Because I can face you, and touch, and move inside your body,
But never fully release you,
Because no one captures all of their desires
Or remembers all of their dreams,
Because we will both some night
Again sleep by the side of the road to the restless idling of the engine,
Nervous, aching with worry, exhaustion, uncertainty, and solitude,
Because small hands and eyes forget,
Because the only truth I have is your fingers
Tracing circles on my forearm,
Because I cannot always have you there
And yet will always live as deeply as possible,
I will give as much of my life to you
As you will take
In the hard currency of moments,
And the rest you will have to keep with you
As words written on a stormy night
In a passing shower.



Strange rain
Falls from nowhere
Stuttering patternless marks
Along the water’s crystal surface
And over the cold, cooling ground
Where I have led you in silent anticipation
A foreign geography of familiar space
That your time made into a home
As though even if you never returned
What you needed to give to me gave
Even the cardiac dance of pen across paper
A joyous grace in its simplicity
It was all always here, but
The way you saw it all made me love it all
Until after the luxury of days together
Returning to it becomes
The melodious refrain of music itself.