We dip close
to México,
our seasonal pools
full of sky.
Spring-sown yellow flowers
dot the shadows
of low adobe walls,
the land a quiet line
against clouds.

A door overgrown
with vines, asleep,
the kind you have to force
with care, set in this shallow wall
where no door
appeared before.

Only light rain
to shine the leaves so
this dim time of day,
bring close
cloud shreds,
a suggestion of chaparral
on the wind.

Mid-winter we talk of nothing
but sunbathing,
memories surface sweating—
sunk in water
surprisingly cool
I wash my headache
away, we lose our towels
to the tide, too many pines
beckon, dinner’s ready
when the stars like party lights
define night.

Inside we trap cool night air,
our sensitive feet
bare on concrete.
Glass holds the day outdoors
where so much brilliance
washes colors weak
and the heat
gently thrashes the trees.

Hand me a new life like a leaf on your palm,
a large, light, tropical life
damp with milk sap.
Only to float
in this thermal spring
til the tide floods in
pleads a leaf when I ask
May I get you anything.
Already I feel a change
in the onshore breeze,
sense the pull of currents
the sea like a spider spins—
distant oracles, personal storms
almost threatening.

Through openwork,
warmth a shape,
sunshines stretch
down stairs, catch
dust suspended
in the air, and through
the leaves of trees
through windows
bring the open air interior.

Come evening
she thinks of me, waits
moth-like in porch light.

See her
brush the air
inexpertly—a breeze
that lifts my hair
carries her
past the tops of trees,
past any future
I can read,
where only those
who steer by the moon
alone can go.

Bare coast before us
the road edge
eaten by waves. Rest
at an empty rest stop,
sunset a line of light
on cinderblock. A mile on
we find a place to sleep
on sand. Wake
with dew in our hair,
pack the car
while dolphins skirt the shore.