Can we not fold ourselves into each other
as the day into night--
to mingle like dusk,
neither me, neither you?

Strophe - Antistrophe

This desire
to be more than a question
etched in low-tide sand.

It is the very desire,
of course,
that is the problem.

It is the dark, small hours
that empty me at times,
a wine glass drunk
and forgotten.

The still pond is not anxious,
nor the stone before it skims
the water-mirror.
Ah! to be that pond and that stone.

A random smile
like a sudden and momentary sun--
my low-slung heart is lifted
just enough.