The unstable elements
you heat,
the hate
you forge,
the alloys
you armor in—
your work
begins already
to decay—
a nuclear tendency
to degenerate
the legacy
you leave us
all exposed.

Abandoned machinery
and memory
mark this stretch
of beach cliff
unsafe. Hillsides
wave still
with mustard plants,
yellow-yellow-green.
No young
mustard leaves
for us
for thirty years
at least.
Refinery employees
for decades
watched migrating whales
from this same spot,
let hydrocarbons leach
into the paths we walk.
Only the roots of weeds now
make amends.

Over rafters
in raw air
we drape
nasturtium stems—
great lengths
torn tender
from the banks
of black streams.
Moon-faced leaves
in curtains
catch splinters
of sun—the day
through gaps
between boards
like so many stars indoors.

Sweet rice straw
we gather
green to twine
a shimenawa,
humble ward
against ills
across the door.
Faint scent familiar,
fresh-cut, clean
as rain on dry ground,
O grass snake
embrace this modest
shrine of a house.

In the folds of trees,
in uncut
roadside grass,
tucked in lava cracks,
infinite orchids
easy as any weed,
everyday as rain.

Dimpled with fish
part sea part fresh
the pond is a slick of sky.
Rain-damp at low tide
on lava steps
our clothes steam
in sunlight.
Through water warm as air
nimble shrimp
test our pale thighs.

Carved from cliff stone
these steps to the sand
show wear.
Down from their cliff homes
over years
those who call this coast
their own
know the tides,
each step
a shallow bowl
resplendent with sea light
and sudden fish.

On the sacred trails
I travel still
sun-warm chaparral
burns my nose,
the resinous smell
somehow close
on these open hills,
low scrub
and hollow sky
far as the horizon.