The pen

The pen

The ink

The time to think

With a lover’s abandon

The month

The day

The hope to play

With love at random

The book

The collection

The space to build

A place to land in 

Next come the perforated pages

Next come the perforated pages

This then at the end

Of the certainties so to speak

On a blue sky day

Yet without the bands of joy

Instead the notes

Fall, one by one

From Vienna or Havana

With summer coats

For the one by one

From Sienna or Copacabana

Next come the perforated pages

Pasted down through the ages

With the sure-fire certainty

Of a blue sky day

With hope for the bands of joy 

To have been there

 To have been there

As you have been there

To have tasted the fruits

Of lascivious love

To have dwelled

As you have dwelled

On the mound

Of stupefied love

To have lain there

As you have lain there

In the sensual silence

Of the submission to love

To have smoked there

As you have smoked there

In the wondrous aftermath

Of the engagement of love

After a long time away

After a long time away

And with ink on my fingers

After refilling the pen

I feel a need to consent

To complete this book

Before I set out on my travels

Such that I might

Take the third book with me

Second is an odd place

Not a cherished space

In any of the sports

Which I practiced

And so with this book

Neither one thing

Nor the other

Just more scratching

On the recycled paper

As one listens

To the angelic chorus

And the singular island’s keys 

Nowhere is where I need to be

Nowhere is where I need to be

To find the nothingness

Which faces the life inside of me

Nothing sets me free

Such as the emptiness

Of simply being able to see

To see that peaceful calm

Which exists, as if by the trees

Out in the meadows

Or playing in the stream

Where light-hearted

Tenderness sets the scene

Finding memories, once seen

Never to be forgotten

What can it mean

This nothingness, filled

With the emptiness to be

At one with love