from The magic lantern

When you sensed that it could be a state of being
in which you are suspended,
serous fluid in an amnion,
your journey angled towards its purpose.
You then divined that it is a place,
perhaps a splendid hotel
like one of those you frequented in Provence
in the halcyon days.
Everything there is composed but animate, 
even the air with its lavender hint.
The flowers at reception are always fresh.
Sun rays flute into the clear-watered vases
and disperse themselves in a spectrum
that papers the walls.
The décor tailors itself to the light,
accents with shadows,
and the setting is your state of mind.
Guests are hosts; hosts are guests.
Everyone is related by blood or something thicker.
The space is designed to incite love or its repair.
Intimacy concertinas in the arbor and by the pool.
All your needs are met before you know you have them. 
You, too, are a meeter of needs. 
Your presence completes the tableau.
Sadness is there, too, cooing from a cage 
in the lobby near all those vases
and pecking at millets of solace.
And death, a permanent visitor with a routine, 
walks the halls because you did not turn it away,
because you accepted it,
indeed, because you invited it into an accord.
In return, it frees you to be 
intensely present on the veranda 
where you can see beyond the view,
where you can hear the cogs of the bougainvillea
cycling starch and water in its leaves 
and mixing its magenta.