any day like this one

tonight i made flight reservations and left several hushed messages on machines in different cities. about time zones and how long it’s been since i’ve seen the ocean or slept through the night. maybe this is my high life. stolen moments in time when i find the strength. follow through. exert any measurable control. and i need these few weeks to carry me through. it’s been far too long. and, although it isn’t strictly true, there’s no where else to go.

into his answering machine 6:30pm PST
i’ve been listening to ravel’s bolero
and thinking about you
you and the weight of orchestral colors
the snare drum -- your eye lashes
the slowed down rhythm of the tempo
stealing itself away from the dance
the steady movement of hips -- relentless
a construction in eighteen repetitions
never ending too soon
nor soon enough
until i want the flute to return
start it again
let it build and build and build