from the desk downstairs

laced with water, blueberries, sticks of chalk

to the garden overflowing

with dahlias, sunflowers, green tomatoes on the vine

this is the way I trace my path through my world

at the bookstore

in Neruda and myths

the scent of antique paper

a man asks for directions in English, thick with French

and I ask for more poetry

the pills in my bag

roll and shift in the quiet of the room

cookbooks, for how to heal the gut, the liver, the extra weight

but on how to save a life

there are none

no one wonders who I might be

when I walk past

I'm like the familiar deer in the yard

nuzzling feathery stalks of corn

shy and content and always a little tensed

I might be ready to fly if you raise your voice

or to come a little closer

if you will be soft

the whole village knows me

little soul who lost such a big thing

but who doesn't look for it here

in the morning glories or the mist on the river

it's gone from the bed

from the grasp

it's cup of coffee left cooling on the counter

it's owner has gotten up from that table

and only comes here by night

when the stars are beaming full in the sky

He must wait until I fall asleep

because when first light comes

and the sound of morning reaches my ears

He's abroad again in his own world

Explaining himself, perhaps

Or else not saying anything at all,

but feeling the sun on his face like I do 

the warm ground beneath his feet like I do 

the hard-bought patience of waiting 

like I do

watching with a quiet aching

the vast territories of God and men

like I do

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