A rock skips across the sky,
leaves concentric circles of cloud
to wonder at.

In Ronda the cliffs are steep
And the waters mild so far as I recall;
Her sun sets on a landscape of olives and dust,
She swallows time in great gulps of oil and sky—

You notice your parents’ aging as you do your own:
Not at all, then in a photo, all at once.

Nothing but a flock of pre-dawn breeze,
And florid sky, and lake

Taut with water, like a sail:
A painting in motion, unfinished.

All is quiet, save a receding engine’s roar,
a plume of smoke, and my uneven, unsteady breath.
I want to live after all, or at least survive
the day’s threshing

This is not the hour for poetry but for lovemaking, or
sleep. I grow tired, beseeching. An eagle circles my bedroom,
eying me lustily; her talons promise relief I’m not ready for.