At least a hundred pieces left,
so we sit for a few minutes tonight
to gather it back,
letting our talk lapse
and our thoughts drift

The death gods do not live here anymore.
Codex after codex left the Mayan shores
for the cities of Europe by whose names
we came to know one relic from another.

“She treasures their golden gift,
mixing herbs to make medicine
for sisters with coughs,
guests with aches,
even the itchy Abbey dog.”

“Sometimes, I lay in my bathtub
in the middle of the human night
let the water cover my nose and mouth
and wait”

I long for you:
the snowflakes kiss
my eyelids
and layer white
on white
by my feet.

“In the linden grove beside the stream
a soft-eyed girl in weeds bends down to see
a cat near death, his fur like cream”

“In this story of the hermit saint, one stoic thorn
from the rose honors the responsible

with blood and pain.
The moonlight, like an open door, questions and answers us.”

“A few drinkers are still awake,
lit by shadow
and a tallow candle.”

The heavens mapped? The spent mind
of a wanderer mapped back upon his silent sky