POEMS BY GEORGE PAYNE: The Sound of God, What the Greeks Did Not Leave and more

Inside the tent, before the siren
of seagulls and crows,
the world loses a little bit
of its sovereignty.

If only for a minute or two,
rolled like a napkin in a French
bistro and zoned out to the blithe,
unconditioned air, measuring
time by the breaths of a caving fly
and the meditations of dripping rain.