As I near the intersection

As I near the intersection,

the ghosts of love linger in

their heavy cloaks.

Here is where Mel and I pushed a dying car.

Here is where I snapped photos with Donna.

Here is where I tried to play the uke with Linda.

Mel, Donna, Linda

—the names are now just words

and distortions of something

deeper,

something good;

something

ultimately

doomed.

The failure of the words to represent the love

like the failure of my heart to cultivate the love;

it is a heart that’s tried to throw the sword down

but still meets with the ghosts

of dead intersections,

each of us cloaked

in our own

heavy

burden.

That morning rain

What was it about that morning rain

far from where the homeland lied,

far from where our tongue was spoken

and where I knew a face

in people passing by?

What was it about that rain

that fell through early mornings

in Kazakhstan

and Georgia?

That exotic morning rain…

If the sun appeared

it took its holy place before the lovers of the world.

If the fog came thick

it stalled the dying of the night.

But our partner in the dance

—that early morning rain

miles and miles from home:

it didn’t need to speak of love

nor think upon the night.

That exotic morning rain

came tender with the dawn

and with it washed away

all we’d known before.

Where is god?

Where is god?

I don’t know.

But at times there’s a certain stillness

and silence

within which 

such a question appears the wrong one to be asking

and what the right one might be

seems best left

to god.