Somewhere inside of me is another continent
or maybe several, landscapes I’ve never laid
eyes on or touched, textured hillsides,
some barren, others of wheat waving to nobody,
roads where you can drive for days
before coming into some sudden village.
And it is there that my soul goes
for coffee come mornings after the nights
that span millenia that I spend walking
or writing or caressing a lover I meet
in each lifetime as if by contractual agreement.
There is no hurry upon entering this town,
where everyone wears animal scents and skins
and a muskiness lingers in the air
like the last of the moonlight piercing
the icy cold river. I sip strong, black coffee
brewed by goddesses who drape stars
around their necks like jewels.
Sometimes the village appears unexpectedly–
when I’m sitting cross-legged in an angel’s lap,
or frying onions in a cast-iron pan, or crossing
unadvisedly against the light.
It is the bell at the end of a row of inked letters,
a series of small gasps before sneezing.
And always, I step in and not away,
forward into space to see
what surrounds this borderless new country
where instead of words spoken,
there are foreheads touching gently.