It is, I think
her lips I miss most
their butterfly flutter
across my cheek
then her eyes, almost feline
that see within
behind walls
hastily erected
that fall to her sight.
It is all of that
and the whispered words
linking hearts
that still echo
as she slides into sleep.
I cry out to Morpheus
my words are swallowed
by the drone
of the engines
that fall as rain
into the Sea of Okhotsk
to wash onto the shore
of Khabarovsk.

First Published in The Globe Review, Issue 2, April 2023


Somewhere, tonight
a bagpiper is playing.,
Notes from the drone
and chanters lick the sky,
piercing passing clouds,
embedding themselves in the stars.
Somewhere else
a flute player fingers the stops
as notes pour forth
and dance on the moonlit lawn.
Neither piper nor flautist
hear each other,
but I weave both
into a song, my pulse
carries its rhythm,
and the song will
carry my dreams
until morning.