Bunches

The moon shines down on the water

Even after the first time

Playing golf on an island

Small enough to meet you again

If these islands are a system

That can explain the distance

Between as something other

Than the slow geology

That brings us together

And apart so briefly

Shifting the focus of affection

To the drift to furtive glances

Through the telescope

(breakfast in bamboo huts

and tea with raw fish)

Then I will find a way

To send a backwards sign

By smoke by subtext

Or maybe by moon

When you are not watching

And I am not home