My photograph of a painting by a local Vietnamese artist, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam.

We woke each morning
mapping our lives across the bedroom wall.
Cobwebs in the corner,
each thread a new conscience nagged.
Home was home
and this was the best kind of love.

Then we fell mute, dumb black stares
in the shadows of those winter mornings.
And silent rambles by the canal side,
each moment slowed to silence.

As years go by, I still see
the blue cotton curtains hanging still
on a ceaseless summer day.
And your perfect body, long blazing hair,
offering me endless endearments night after night.

Now, with the rain falling
they are just a few quick frozen closet snapshots,
left alone in a small corner of a foreign land.
Far beyond all that is now and will be.