Rounding a curve, I come upon
a clutch of stone cottages
hugging the cliff below the road. At one,
hummingbird moths dip into jasmine for nectar,
at another, a man plays Bach on his cello,
at a third, a man and woman hold hands
across a small table, two glasses,
what’s left of a bottle of wine between them.
All are in the same places, at the same time
each night. I am more of their lives—
these moments of their lives—
than my own, stopping to listen, to watch,
to breathe all of night’s heavy perfumes.
I am the observer. I notice
what they cannot, because moths are engrossed
in blossoms, cellist is caught in
vibrations of bow against strings,
lovers are all to each other. I want
to be moth or flower, maker of music,
the music itself, an occupant of
the infinite, infinitesimal cosmos of love.
I want,
and go on, bathed in moonlight,
in light-as-thought air,
ripe figs smooth, dark, aromatic
suspended around and above me. Oh,
to be a smooth, ripe fig!