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.

In the quiet applause
of falling rain
I wake too slow
to hurry the houseplants out
to rinse the leaves clean.

Indoors and dull with dust
but wet earth
enlivens the green pulse
that pulls us
out the door, barefoot
beneath dripping trees.

Oceans of traffic sounds
lap at this stucco house.
Behind the backyard
another backyard,
another pale house
on its thru-boulevard.

Dreams full of cars
on the second floor.
In this second floor air
we are open more
sigh windows in summer
in touch with each other
on currents that close the doors.

Only a small sun
and the heat in waves
leaves her,
arms and legs
and hair swept up
with steam
undone down dark halls
in the blue-black shade
this old house makes
even on bright days.

Rare dinosaur dreams
where everything feels outsize—
shiny magnolia leaves
like books
fall open to the sky.
Giant flowers tremble
as giant insects arrive
and even the air feels heavy,
dangerous with life.

The door is gone.
We slid it in the wall.
Outside air
likes basking
in the front hall.
We step soft,
even when we run,
ankle deep
in bees
on the clover lawn.

Strung up
in the hard Djerban sun,
I chose you, my very fine
sea sponge.

Tiny grains of reef
still netted
in your feet,
I can tell,
like a shore-blown tree,
you grew
with the flow of the sea.

Even now, years later,
here in the shower,
you still smell oceany.