The townsfolk know him only
����from his poems, his morning cameo
��������in the window as he waves her away.

Alise, his merry street sweeper,
����his crackpot camera to a world
��������beyond uterine walls, it is she

who brings him words
����on wrapper scraps collected
��������from hollows where they�ve blown,

with her simple preference
����for pebbles, in her savoring
��������of salt whispers over the marsh.

She gathers stories from flowers
����nodding in riotous crowds,
��������learns the cartography of bees

the songs of cicadas and rain,
����her skirts weather-twisted, earlobes
��������dripping pagan luck � the witch

who spills the day for an evening
����of champagne fireflies, of skin on skin
��������the cool and color of blancmange.

In her kiss, his zen daughter
����in his verse, the algorithm to her chaos.
��������The firm nothings of their laughter

tie the hermit to a solitary gypsy,
����join them in a carnival of coincidence
��������and his knees have forgotten at last

the pain of begging
����yet another pretty charity.