at four A.M. we drink burning
rivers under the solitary
light hanging from the crusted,
tall white pole perpendicular
to dad’s red, handcrafted birdhouse
which spins in the wind.

by five it rains.
we leave the cobwebbed lawn chairs
in darkness and sniffly we travel
to France with rocks in our boots
on hilly sides of streets next to deep ravines.
statues stand tall in driveways
and gleam gargoyle teeth.

sunrise and your baklava smile
is reluctant sweet summer
molasses and you say we will
always be friends but not when
you are cold. I procure a folded
blanket and wrap you in it and

underneath
it seemed appropriate (didn’t it)
how we didn’t know yet how to cross.
for a long time we did not and
miles make for lost time
adrift of the other

(originally published in Enaegon Magazine – August 16,2014)