yesod shebnetzach
Leo, how old were we, seven?
When my parents were over at Uncle Milt’s and Aunt Ellen’s—
maybe your parent, parents, were over there too—and we
sat next door at my house, outside, in back, on the
little cement ledge, far enough away not to hear
the sound of conversations, of crabs cracking—
and we saw the stars above us in the dark,
pointed them out to each other, pointed some
other things out too—what were they, Leo, those
words come from us like stars ready to guide,
dreams of the universe, of God, if I remember true,
cushioned by silence and wind and night sky—
and who were you, Leo, whom I haven’t seen since,
to whom all sacred moments seem to trace back,
who started all my memories of evening love,
whose quiet presence each quiet lover becomes?
What do you do today, Leo?
Would I be proud of you?
Do we need to long to feel alive?
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