A hand written letter
with a fountain pen
And a seal of kiss
By nude lips.
Or a call from a telephone booth
With coins dropped just as
grains slipping from a drunken fist.
A message floating in a bottle of wine
Thrown onto the floor while
singing the laments of absence.
Or the pattern of the constellation
Looking at your terrace
As it walks from one shore to the other
On the ocean bed of the sky.
Any how, just anyhow
I might send you the biddings
But you must be there, oh my dear
to receive, on the other end.
The end, that which
doesn’t belong to these times.
Photo by John McSporran