According to the polar reports,

there is no grief. Too cold for that. Still, age after age,
the high-flying prow nears Polaris. It is enough to steer
by the twilight reds of achiote and carmine.

Nothing lasts a hundred years, not even paradise.
I give up mine. Flood the dining room with sunlight.

In the mountains as I passed a flock of sheep
in the midday heat, it was possible to know with certainty,
this was not the first time I have lived. But I was wrong.
Our swimming on moonlit nights is all the counterproof I need.
(The dining room was witchcraft, or a dream.)

Let's gather the equipment, see the landscape.
We'll pack one tent for our love, another for our sins, walk south
until we can hold each other steady—until we find courtyards
trimmed with lemon trees.

Here's an Audubon of birdcalls, bells, all bells.
It grows cold—molted duck feathers wash up
in great heaps, on the beach.

A flock of snow geese rises, a snowstorm.
(Everyone catches something that disappears.)

Copyright © 2005 Jeffrey Levine All rights reserved
from Rumor of Cortez
Red Hen Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission