With no recrimination or even judgment or even grief.
On the skull mala, 108 times.
When the door opens in the early evening.
From across the street on Wilshire, surprised.
When my hands are cold, always.
Because the wine is good.
Lying in the grass, when the clouds move suddenly.
When you hit the brakes: fear!
Uncertain if I’m here (I am).
At once an epithet, a byname, an endearment, a curse.
