Invitation
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.