Get in your car and drive sometime up north
and i will meet you with espresso at the molly pitcher toilet-stall and grill
on jersey's 95;
we'll talk . . . . i'll look you eye to eye....
you’ll hear of my fascination with a compound lens;
and i will learn from you
to shoot like Hendrix with my telescope
hanging from a simple string across my back.
from here the puzzle pieces nest like waves
filling pockets in the sand like fingers in a leather glove;
stolen from the eye, like acrobats above the blind astronomer
a moon slides silently across the sun.
I’ll leave unfinished toast and crumbs inside my plate
our conversation half begun;
you again to Florida, me the North Shore Sound
never quite sure by speaking if we dug or filled
or just moved
a hole
© Jeff Thomas 2009
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