-each in a place of our choosing and in our own time-

a musing over a far younger poet

so I write things down. so do you, I see.

let’s sit at our tables as we gather our belongings.

the interiors are cluttered with all sorts of stories, but

we can sort them out, you gathering those which speak

to your residence as I do the same for those which speak to mine.

after all, we've laid them down for a purpose.

the spines of books you've read are seen shelved behind you

and you've absorbed the richness of them, it's clear.

your documents are formal and convincing, unlike my own

which are sincere but fractured and nearly unknowable.

the papers I hold are older, vintage you might say.

a patina casts a veil of time over them and anyway
who would make the effort required to seek them out?–– but,

still, it makes sense for you and me to sit at the tables

each in a place of our choosing and in our own time.

there lie the impossible goings-on drifting inward through the doorways

not yet fully engaged but lingering and learning then drifting

outward from whence they came less naked as their beginnings.