January / the early years

7:47 PM / meet with me, friends.

the backyard is open to our preferences.

It’s cold, and the space between objects is clear.

come with me.

I’m traveling through a challenging

distance.

look.

the waning moon is a sleeping eye!

we’ll get away with murder.

look.

Jupiter hangs its bulb on the front

porch of the firmament.

It’s a sign of welcome meant for us.

It’s cold.

the atmosphere stiffens the flesh.

the heavy materials crack under smears of ice.

look.

the tangled grapevine hibernates from its early

autumn labors under the cover of winter.

behind us

our cloistered families have abandoned the frantic

supper tables

and televisions are warming-up.

7:48 PM / It’s late, my friends, and there’s trouble brewing.

I’m called to the indoor part of life without an offering of terms.

Inside, the dry heat of burning kerosene will surround me.

wait here.

I’ll return when the galaxy’s pinwheel comes back ‘round.