Can we share a cup of coffee, he asked, 
or maybe a glass of wine? Can we watch 
the sun disappear along the strand
 
where Spenser scrawled Laura’s name 
or anticipate its rising beyond the hills 
where Jig found some way to go on? 

Can we nap beside a lazy river, 
or roll our pants and stroll the beach, 
listening for Prufrock’s mermaids? 

Can we talk about measures of joy 
and pleasures of measureless joys? 
Can we hold hands, lock fingers, 

tangle eyebeams, trade breaths, 
embrace minds and mingle souls?
If not coffee, what about life together?
                        

He was a hawk, flying fierce and free,
his chest shone with gold and white armor,
his wings lined with gray and black chainmail,
his head crowned, talons bared or tucked as needed.

He was a force to behold, ready to challenge
an eagle or dove, whichever dared to cross him.
The sun rose. He soared higher, sweeping skyward
over the forest, swooping down through trees, 
oak, walnut, pine, dogwood, crepe myrtles.

He had time for one last recognition— 
how glorious and graceful he looked— 
as he met himself in the mirrored light
of a window that he mistook for open sky.