no one knows how he got here. he carries his own gill nets and flies - a parade of musk and lavender across the baltic seas - past so many little catastrophes. no flame anywhere in sight, just the grey white of richter paintings. like a classic film noir. 

sometimes the light travels with him, sometimes not. and i am tempted to approach him, bring him peaches and geraniums from the south, old songs in greek about young girls and ouzo. 

it’s been years. i have yet to decide. but i followed him here and i wept when i saw the mountains, behind the sun, which comes & goes, like miracles. he goes on collecting light on a blue globe. i go on waiting, with the instinct of stones.