27 may 2005
In honor of our conversation I've opened the Garanacha. The cork, plastic, is black -- and so is the wine, just barely tinged red. It's very good. I'll have the rest. "It's always hard, breaking up with you." Every time. The irony takes two sentences to catch up. "This isn't working, is it." Statement. No, it isn't. I love you. yes. this can't continue.

Solstice: voyeur

I watched the young couple walk into the tall grass and close
the door of summer behind them, their heads floating
on the golden tips, on waves that flock and break like starlings
changing their minds in the middle of changing their minds,
I saw their hips lay down inside those birds, inside the day
of shy midnight, they kissed like waterfalls, like stones
that have traveled a million years to touch, and emerged
hybrid, some of her lips in his words, all of his fists
opened by trust like morning glories, and I smelled green
pouring out of trees into grass, grass into below, I stood
on the moment the earth changes its mind about the sun,
when hiding begins, and raised my hand from the hill
into the shadows behind the lovers, and contemplated
their going with my skin, and listened to the grass
in wind call us home like our mothers before dark.

-- Bob Hicok