Shaman standing in the spin
Shaman standing in the spin, surrounded by the silent men.
Stiff and supple, dancers move
to the sound of ancient grooves.
Back muscle, ankle, leaning in,
basking in the butterfly,
tucking in the tiger.
Summer Again
Soaking up the rain and whipping spit of the waves, as he stood next to the ocean of my memory, a fire hydrant in a red windbreaker, glaring in the midst of a water storm, how I wished it was summer again. Matching silver rings and glances over coffee, army jackets and annual cigarettes, looking at the stonework on the buildings forever, necks craning to see the falcons carved like gargoyles, high enough, on their third story ledges, to amaze us but not so close as to pose any real threat. Under the willow tree, I will always be, with his hands on my shoulders.
