Past neighbor’s singing fountain
around jasmine cluttered street corner
a whiff of barbeque intrudes
out tapering country road
where rattlers are known
to slink in thirsty months
past empty farm laborer’s
shabby quarters—
quiet as a monk’s cell
I reach for his hand
the same place
the same time
most evening walks and
the world magically tips and
the constant moon
rides up the nocturne sky