Friend Peter

by Bruce Holsapple

Opened window by the sink
dark wind clattering
thru wood blinds
reminds me, washing dishes,
of an island breeze
& it is, sort of, me isolated
in the desert highlands

follow the associations:    wind kitchen light
shades (shad) ocean    Long Island beach
friend Peter
dead now 16 years

Us sitting on a windy beach
looking out at a bungalow
way back, where a writer we knew
used to spend weekends, an expensive getaway
thinking him privileged

Inside that getaway myself now
how the wheel’s spun round
Peter haunting me
the mixed sense of exile
& occasion

big windows, tile floor
a privileged view
by fact of these dry stony mountains
the reddish landscape
scattered juniper

puts a hitch in my step
stops my breath
walking out on the porch at dawn