(from the moon series - Camino de Santiago edition)
A pair of space ship shoes and my feet sail
to the moon. The whooshing of cars in the rain
and the poor crazy dog cold and chasing them.
The sound of your voice after days
brings me back. The gigantic silver windmills
on the mountains not spinning and covered
in fog. The tree line still reachable. Pasta
on the stove and the dagger dance. The body
worn out and head drifting off before the daylight
is gone. The rustling plastic bags. The staff
leaned into the corner. My basic necessities
realized. The bells of the cathedral just toll.
A hundred ways to hang a cat on a Russian night, burned.
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