Where music flows
over 200 year old sidewalks,
slick slates broken
under thousands of feet.
There’s a word never said
that invites ghosts
who carry me out
to the center of Lake Ponchartrain
where I can stand
head and shoulders deep
within the soft currents
until finding the sea
at last light of day.

Time is cruel. It carries me
back – just when I’d forgotten
that things end
and so seldom return,
flowing in long sliding rhythms
like the beat of drums,
pounding below the surface.