Bob Marcacci teaches English in Osaka, Japan, has lived in San Francisco, and has
been writing poetry for fifteen years.

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My lover is away and I am lost
without the touch I learned to crave. Without
her voice in waking dawn, I slowly crossed
into a lonely dream and stood about
the bedroom thumbing pages of a book.
My lover must return or I will die
again while reading poetry. I look
around me twice and wish for wings to fly
beyond these walls, beyond the swirled streams
of light and words and restless thoughts of love
to join her in another country. Dreams
that never end with day or night, that shove
aside the senses, brave to darkened fears
in darker waters, still absorbing tears.

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             mountainous

        among cool white tide-
         pools          the faded light sinks
             deeper still
            conspired scarified rock colossus
           wind-cured no head opened toward sky
               swallowed by clouds
                  lozenge of earth
                                  neck perfect