She was coming towards him, thrilled that he loved her & suddenly out of nowhere came the
cyclone. When it passed, to her he was a ghost. She called the shamans when in his anguish he
reached out and tapped out his desolation on the midnight moon.

She had told her that there had been others before him and they had all been turned into stone and
banished into the basement of a lost museum in Atlantis. 

Just before the cyclone, he had seen her with her husband’s superior and felt her knees go weak. 

Later he heard that she had gone to the island of Lesbos and now no one knew where she was.

She was his friend's wife. She was madly in love with him. He was in love with her. 

They were friends. She told her friends he was her boyfriend. They remained friends, her desire
drying out over a long time like a smudging wall in a decade of Calcutta monsoons.

She never got to know why he would suddenly fall back as they plunged into the torrents together.
Why he would never come with her to where they were going. Why he would return from the door. 

He would never know why his friend suddenly stopped calling.

Our fingers touch

and the cacophony of the ebbing day

begins to sink into the endless 

waters of lost time

and another life rises

amidst the drone of crickets

and trees awake around us 

in bird calls and fireflies

and, unnoticed, the sunset 

has floated away

and the stars 

blush.

Our fingers touch

and life is awakened

alert to possibilities 

of the foreplay 

for more.

Our fingers touch

and in one corner of the horizon

I glimpse the boundless ocean

of a universe of love unasked.

No matter 

who or what or when

in love we are always three.

Two mountains & a gorge

I am programmed to plumb gorges

for signs of life.

I avert my eyes

you smile.