at some point we stop
wishing for new places
and think more of returning
to places we’ve been.
it is wistfulness
married to unmade memories and
our loss of fearlessness
mourned by photographs.
here he passes and mirrors
so much the size of my head
that for a moment i steady –
his thoughts on dinner
he looks long down the curl of road a
wisp of smoke come
to rest over bluffs
and the souls of sheep
a joint, a warm coffee on
the porch while the last light
pushes the horizon an inch
above the horizon
and here she calls him in
and he thinks too much
for a second, lost between
words and reaction
it takes an odd type
to settle on these coastal towns.
at least, one must have unkempt hair
and shave once a week or less.
ladies can go longer but anything more
would be uncivilized.
the gunsel 