Two lovers lie in bed, air thin 
between them, ceiling a black cloud
absorbing their dreams.

Their hands touch, 
incidental contact,
and in silence they begin 

their climb to gain a view, 
see where they have been 
where they might yet go.

Over there, one says, no,
over there, the other responds,
but neither sees what the other sees.

The cynic says, see, there is no there 
there, only breath at whose peaks and valleys
we die and are resurrected again. 

Ah, but these old lovers know better,
eyes closed now to open the view, calling 
without you I never would have gone there.

I lie on the lounge
rocking chair clicks next to me
like a clock ticking

syllables be damned
the pen demands one more stroke
to fill the chair 
where my love sits
and my life opens-- 
the inscrutable smile
eyes dancing beneath veiled lids
to measures spent
and left 
our pendulum in our time
forty-five years and counting 
up never down