We had different definitions.
I planned time away with poetry—
new notebooks, favorite pens,
a few igniting books, a workshop,
comfortable sandals.
Clearly, Poetry Vacation meant
something else entirely to you, poetry.
You’ve wandered off, down to the river and away
while I was sharpening pencils.
I’ve stopped searching, okay? I’ve been outside
all summer, so I’m tanned and warm. And home.
Nobody loves the desperate,
we all learned from bitter times.
So I’m not. Not yet. I wish you well.
I wish you nights with orange moons,
fragrant festival food, convivial companions.
I wish you tents and boats that never leak,
I wish you horizons full of temples or oceans or mountains
whatever it was you wanted of a vacation.
I wish you enough hours and ink to find your way home.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 