It was late for a visit. I opened the door
And outside was standing my own language.
My old friend had traveled places I had not been.
Well don’t be a stranger I said. Come in.
You’re the one outside, said the voice of my language.
And I was, and I came on in, not sorry I was late.
Conversations (VI) — to the future
With eyes closed I can hear you smile.
Your voice a place I know my way around.
Woodpeckers say goodnight the strangest way
And other birds of winter appear as singular
Leaves of gray, blue, gold on the trees
We can only see through their nakedness.
I drop your eyelids’ map of dreams:
Everything you are I still don’t know
Runs through my veins
Like the flight patterns of birds
that never have to know the route