In the library Henry sees Clare for the first time
In the Time Traveler’s Wife though she has seen him seeing her
many
She asks him to dinner noting how she has prepared her life
For this moment
There is a bauble of uncertainty in the daily current
Of when or if we will ever meet
I speak to you from my pillow before slumber
Waiting on a day like Henry’s
I meet artists.
I often wonder if she is you.
Underneath the color pallet
The Sisyphean introductions smear
The parade puts me in books to write a book
Swirling counterclockwise speed reading
To wind closer to the moment of our intersection
As if the universe has told me, “You have to write this first.”
This cosmic imperative rationalized in a mosaic of faith
The lost jobs, children, the nomad residence
The dancer, the yogini, the potter, the costumer, the painter
The heady breaths of alone past midnight
Barefoot and glass
Meditating in kundalini with a twin spiral rising
Anus, genitals, navel, heart, larynx, third eye, crown
Flush into this library of lessons of what existence is
The quantum smallest of the small in a barter of geometry
In time I pray we have
I see the gray hairs and wrinkled peace fingers
The homeless neighbors knocking for a hand up fearing storms
I think of Grace Kelly in Rear Window
Bewitching Jimmy Stewart hovering over in a shadowed kiss
How’s your leg? Hurts a little. And your stomach. Empty as a
football.
And your love life. Not too active. Anything else bothering you?
Who are you?
The outside world and me
Bathing in the silence of neighborhood gunshots
A dark house with one lit room typing
8:46 pm on a Saturday night
Thinking about the solace of if you knew who I was
So it was not so hard to find you
Respiration to hope in a poet’s intuition
That when I see you, I would know
Feeling so silly how many times I have felt that way before.
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