For Mike, a poem

How many nights have we spent
with our faces to the stars

your words are often poetry
and I, the writer, lean
back and listen, or
both of us so eager to talk
just like when
we were kids.
I have a history
with you like
no one else–

SevenTen Photos

of dreaming and defining
and seeking and climbing,
and in the lateness of the night
when parts of us are dying, to each other,
on the phone,
taking turns
on each side of the river
of clarity and insanity.
I meet you there
more often than not;
sometimes the world
is too much for us
and we either break
or we are awakened–
holding hands and
contemplating the
tears in music.
Sometimes the world
is so big and stunning
that we can only
look up to the stars,
seeing our smallness
and smiling.