You smile or rage – no way to predict
who you'll be in a moment, or where.

You whisper and hairs at the back of my neck
rise up as if they were meant to hear.

Your dark chocolate low-notes can swiftly rise
to unheard vanillas. You'll focus on

some stranger as if he were next-of-kin,
blood-close one instant, next instant gone.

Changer under the emblem moon,
I study your weathers and find you again

almost anywhere: in the peace of a stone,
a play of the wind, a burst of cumin.

Barry Spacks

If you've any comments on his poems, Barry Spacks would be pleased to hear from you.