Remembering certain moments of elation of the afternoon
And not the whole idle expansion of the day
We walk towards the fountain expecting a cooling mist
It’s windy, we laugh as our hair and faces get wet
The changing detachment and tone in the photographs
Overhead a falcon practices its dives,
Hiding a new flying patterns and surprises
The day ends and we go our separate ways
Not knowing if there is a new day.


“Run and be free. 

Look both ways 

before crossing the street”.

My instincts 

but sometimes I forget.

I’m so absorbed

with Jack Kerouac’s On the Road

or when I’m in the middle

of a thousand projects

and I’m running

through “a maze

of twisting little passages”. 


It’s not all these things.

I have changed 

since the cherry blossoms.

When I see any flower

my memory of you returns.


edges of things

“The moment of magic”,

that first line of thought

that comes unexpectedly.


I remember you telling me

you become attentive

“more loving, more courageous”

the moment will come

like “a baby deer trembling in the woods”.


I remember you telling me

“in any field, cognitively demanding fields,

there are no naturals.”


I remember your fondness

for toasted baguettes with dungeness crab dip.


I remember you telling me

you like to sit on the “edges of things”

or roam “landscape of chaos”

looking for stones one will remember

or enter new conversations

and plant “little futures”.


I will not see you anymore

sitting under the palm trees, 

every morning, with a cup of coffee,

holding a pen or reading a book

a graph ruled notebook at your side.


Now and then

your absence will become

a presence in my memory.


You may return one day

like a moment of magic.


I barely know you.


missing words

Difficult to miss 

even in a crowd

-a unicorn


I met a girl once in a cafe 

over a cup of coffee

on a Wednesday afternoon 


she published a book

of 51 poems 

an odd number


like an unfinished lunch,

reminds her of hunger,

hunger to write


Her bearing, full white

blouse,slacks, a cap

over black pony tail.


A day unfinished

like a poem 

with words missing.


I could not read

her books of 

I didn’t know her name


or contact her

I didn’t know her 

Where is the land of the unicorn?