There’s a fishing line in the clouds, how

foolish, 

a hook cutting through mist.

Does the bucket man know?

There’s nothing 

to catch?

“I dream of Europe, though it’s not quite Europe. I dream of an orange tree speckled with sunlight. I dream of terracotta balconies. I dream of a white cat curling his tail around my arm so that I feel gentle and worthy.”

“my little bag of you \ too small to hold \ even one thing yet it \ encompasses all that you left \ behind”

“saw your palm in the veins \ of the autumn leaves”

“and by the time i’ve done that, it’s dark outside \ my gaze turns and turns as if i were \ a lighthouse  \ encased \ in an acrylic box”