-weaving between the living and the dead-

In the clearing under moonlessness

Andromeda spins as far as can be seen of light;

maybe it spins there still, far beyond the here-and-now,

and from the banks of the river looking eastward,

the slow hill rises revealing a new incandescence

in the fabric of neighborhood of which almost nothing

is now recognized;

the strike of the Sun on the weathered

wood of my earliest house now slapped in vinyl;

past relations bobbing their heads into view
as if from the shallows of purgatory; the heavy,
endless line of automobiles warming-up

by the curbstones at sunrise in mid-December,––
all in natural order have run the course and still
the great romance isn't slowing its reach

and I like the light of the page in the morning.