Leaving the glade
with its lush undergrowth and quiet air
like an embrace
is like stepping away from
a lover’s arms for the last time,
knowing it’s not your place
but was a lovely respite
you would have fought to linger in
awhile longer.

Skewered and opened like an umbrella,
in full spin and dangerous
to look at with the naked eye,
he took to skyscrapers
with his special suction shoes
to prove there was nowhere
he couldn’t dance.

Some machinery became stuck
in the fields
in the mud
in the muck
yet the trees grew and birds flew

it did seem we were to be swallowed
like the earth was in a hurry
to reclaim
its dark wood and delicate leaves
so tender-light
and stronger than us.

Nights are long enough
to dream of Petra
without Knowing the salt of the desert
or the cold of a tomb,
leaving empty arms for morning
but a smiling memory fragment
of what was held so close
in the exploration of dreams;

we were there,
in sun and dust,
laughing over myths,
making our own stories.