Somewhere Near

Fog drifts past in the dream-colored aftermath (pale
morning light

it isn’t yours until you give it away

              like something you
              pour out of an empty bottle

I’ve got everything we need right here
except food & money but
              there’s plenty of air
w/music in it
                              & blank sheets of poetry
to fan the flames
              & keep the eternal cigarette lit

                              a unit of measure

                              none so exact or useful as zero
                              (that blank stare

out near the flapping
wings you can always trade in for a damp stretch of
pavement

              the bump & grind of the shorebreak
                              windows in the sea
                                                & her eyes…

her eyes like the lighted doorways to a ruined temple
which is her mind
              interior designed by M.C. Escher
resembling a medieval parking structure

paved with clouds