Reunion

Ian
Once, in Chiang Rai
alone in my hotel room,
I saw a cascade of water
appear on the face
of an apartment building
across the street.

Paul
We first met on cold steps
beneath a bridge
slippery brown leaves
matching his shoes.
One day, I said.
That day, he said.

Patrick
Holes in our memories
leave us a poem.
A metamorphosis
from one creation
to another,
like Rauschenberg’s
“Erased deKooning.”

Sally
I will never know
whether I swam in Tiscapa,
lagoon of the dictator,
crowned by Mussolini’s tank,
or dreamt that I did.
I remember climbing a fence.

All
At first a tear fell.
Then a stream followed
a window’s edge,
widening to a torrent of grey.
The balcony sprouted a waterfall
as a tropical storm filled the street.

Jeffrey Dreiblatt is a poet, visual artist and volunteer fireman. He lives in the Hudson Valley and Brooklyn, New York.