Bob Marcacci teaches English in Osaka, Japan, has lived in San Francisco, and
been writing poetry for fifteen years.
My lover is away and I am lost
without the touch I learned to crave. Without
her voice in waking dawn, I slowly crossed
into a lonely dream and stood about
the bedroom thumbing pages of a book.
My lover must return or I will die
again while reading poetry. I look
around me twice and wish for wings to fly
beyond these walls, beyond the swirled streams
of light and words and restless thoughts of love
to join her in another country. Dreams
that never end with day or night, that shove
aside the senses, brave to darkened fears
in darker waters, still absorbing tears.
among cool white tide-
pools the faded light sinks
conspired scarified rock colossus
wind-cured no head opened toward sky
swallowed by clouds
lozenge of earth