So little that counts can actually be said.

"We are like two old people
sitting in rickety chairs
on the porch
sipping small glasses of beer,"
he says.

The monkeys drop bits of tree from the treetops
interrupting the insects' nocturnal chatter.

Yes, we are as old as we will ever be;
like this,
in the cooling of the day.
In the translation of a single burning star
into a perforated black nylon ceiling
where everything turns clockwise
so many times and so quickly that it appears to be
in the very same place.

We are not thirsty. And I trace the orbit of flocks above
while he plans for the sake of planning.

We are quiet together. Digesting.
When he closes his eyes, I hear him listening
to the crickets
immune to clichés and restless motors in the distance.