There are views that are waking; eyes
without sleep.  It all feels
so green; I feel
as if Jordan tumbled west
with the gravity, the rising
of lucid hills & gnarled bark
of Europe.  Your people do not speak
my broken language, with tongues
unraveling the taste of maze-like
streets & verdant jardines.  Eden–
the linguistics of wandering
vines & limbs, fighting back
against an urban sprawl.

& all below, it is green—I am
green, silent, perspiring,
while I wait–
for a bed, for a bath, for
the girl, greener still
but with blue
in her distant
& waking