Bottles lining the bar shelves, Beady eyes ask for women and wealth too, outside an owl eyes the stars.

The first riffs of guitar, the crowd enjoined in flesh surges and pulses. Moon winks at me in joy.

Words echoing in my pen, framing the world in haikus, wonder why the trees finally are bare.

Shared cities, classes; we, migrants who have intersected today
move on into the drifting snows of incoming winter

In response:

Sashi,Sashi! He is the man. Can I buy him a frying pan?

On the map, my fingers of their own volition trace where you were when you left me and went on your own road. Perhaps they remember you more than I do.

It surprises me that this memory of touch is greater than that of memory of knowing. A friend told me the other night when I was down and blue, that I appear to be riddled with bullet holes, through which sunlight pours into my emptiness. Perhaps to light within me maps of places where we were once, you and I when we were still: We.

Spaces have just remained the same, it perhaps still is 700 miles as the crow flies from me to you. But inside all the hollow spaces that I now live in, it's another infinity, even another time.

And of that Stone Age are these heliographics My fingers obsessively trace on various clear maps, As if they see something I don't.

And when I try to remember you, in fragmented images That flutter like feathers or migratory seeds on barbed wire fences. I sense in my open palms, try to touch those dances which our bodies knew how to without our minds deciding.

And sometimes in flashes of rolling thunder I see how my fingers held your waist as they danced with you, in that far away country, maked on the map of my soul; Which sometimes these fingers trace over again so surely for they surely know.

On maps, on the walls.

2001:12:02 11:30 Atlanta

I wrote this when my fingers wandered to that lake shore city on a picture of the earth at night that was taken from space as the sun was setting over the Rockies.