I am enamored of his warm hands,
his mechanics, his partial differentials.
A koala, or some other nocturnal animal,
he sleeps draped in the armpit of a tree.
His smooth shaved head, his high peaks,
his swollen snow-melt streams,
I rely on them, and his library of lost saints.
How many of his thousand books
has he read? A large number probably.
But I know precisely what he will order
from any menu. As well as
his latitude, his angle of repose, his f-stop.
He wears socks with his sandals. He kneels,
pollen-dusted, before the first daffodil.
Poetry - ISSUE #27