What dreams may come

the picture

Tumbling down the narrow
stone steps, the wet taxi streets,
I know nothing of your dreams,
your mood, your dark mystery nights.

Great things, little things,
rye and stout,

my hand on your waist
for the picture.

the sun

we danced around the room
we stood on the roof
we playacted
hamlet, macbeth, anything
to unsee the clouds heavy on the basilica
clouds now on the balcony,
tomorrow, your journey east
                       to die, to sleep, perchance
into the eye of the sun
                       to dream

the end

I remember the Rilke poem,
dark mystery as you turned your head,
the taxi ride, I stood on the roof and watched,
sweetest sadness of the lone wanderer,
the sound of a name, a wintry
season ahead

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