For Mary Oliver

There are teachers
who make a home
in your mouth,
teachers whose words
fly inside thoughts
before you make them,
whose soft hands,
or so you imagine,
hold gently your cheeks
as you drive
toward a different horizon,
perhaps terrified,
and feeling alone,
which of course you never were,
since that day long ago
when white nests
of wild feathers, she wove
in your pockets.

In a Blink

Last night, as Jupiter
danced with Venus,
I thought of you

and you and you,
and all the lights,
in our varying

brightnesses, depending
on the day,
or early dawn as it were,

and how,
when we come together,
and move apart,

it is enough
to break a heart,
or open one,

these many arrivals
and departures,
while Antares

blazes on, a light
that left for Earth
600 years back,

such a long time
and short
time ago.