You shall receive:

a walk in a rainstorm along cursive rails, skipping over ties black with grease,

knife edged feathers shed by Canada geese, an untrodden meadow of wildflowers in some high country,

and from there a view of a lake, whose waters crinkle like the corners of your laughing eyes,

my week old beard like fine sandpaper polishing the sheen of your morning scent, music in smoky dives, bargaining in a babel

of foreign souks, warm bread and cold wine, in a cabin propped up with books, the stage for us to converse in Shakespeare,

an occasional quarrel too with banging doors for rifle shots, and a narrow bed, in which we are forced to lie on our sides to fit

like two mirrors, in which this ceaseless turning towards you in desire, need, and love, and resultant poems without endings including this one…