Would you like to come with me?

Take my hand. The past is gone.


All we had to do was show it our future

and say we had other plans.


Shall we buy tickets?

Pack like mystics?


Look, here is a suitcase

with an ocean in it


called voyage.

Could we fly?


Will rain drops bite

the windows of the plane?


Time is a dialogue

of exodus and entrance.


Little fears and slow digestion.

Admit it, say you want to.


You have always sensed

a longing—visitations


with Archangels

above cloud cover, seraphim


in lightning storms, Gabriel

playing saxophone.


Concur. You crave to tango

in Argentina in four-four time,


your arms around a being

with wings. Trust me,


Provence swallows the atlas

with lavender in spring.


Would you like to come along?

Take my hand. The past is gone.



What are you looking for?