Archive
08/27/09
Longitude and Latitude
Getting slowly inebriated On cicada cadences, on a restaurant patio, He listens to his inner wisdom Whispering to whom, at sixty-eight, It believes him to be, That being his destiny has been awaiting, These many ages,
The man who's come untied From his vital relationships And is drifting, on the outgoing tides, Toward whatever islands, Fata Morganas Might entice his ghost ship, Knowing he's not come nearly far enough To drop anchor, call port home.
If he's at all fortunate, This cicada-inebriated evening, Within hours from here and now, He'll meet who he was, is, will be. It has everything to do, he's been told, With longitude and latitude — Where lonely and unlonely become one.
08/27/09
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