Soft-Shelled
We feel the waves
before they arrive.
Though our thinner shells
make us more alive
to pain—we can’t help
but let the world in.
Not a Lizard, Not a Mouse
You may need
some small life
carried loosely
in the mouth
to warble the sounds
trapped in the floorboards
of your house—the hard part
will be hunting one down.
Suggesting a Cloud
Soak the day
until its soft colors
drain and only
an outline
of all we did
remains—a memory
new enough
we still see it
the same—a vague shape
against the sun
that evening
carries away.
Heart Swell
We saw the way
you let love in,
the little door
you opened
when the light
began to change—
and night pressed
cool against your face.
When your heart
began to swell
the way the moon will
just before rain
we saw the wide world
in your eyes again,
that wild joy
love sometimes brings.
Our Other Lives
In our other lives
we live
where daylight
tangles in the trees
and the sea breathes inland
and we fall heartfirst
into green dreams.
Sneakback Ridge
When the last light
of sunset
outlines our trees,
I’ll knot the violet
of evening
in your eyes.
We’ll crush
stars on the walk
to your car,
night ripe,
blue-black
as tires.
Moor Your Ragged Houseboat to the Bank
Little finger
of a moat
protect one side of this city
from another, neither better
for this strip of bay water.
One freeway
to tuck
under the other:
mother daughter,
shy toddler
of an on-ramp.
A lap of wet clothes
and a bottle,
a tramp and a backpack gang
tagging the insides
of factories.
They leave they’ll leave eventually.
Silt, settling
in your belly,
melting trench songs
men sang
in the days of industry
will fill you … Continue Reading ››
Backcountry
Night, wide-brimmed,
settles wild wanderings
in our early
American hearts, fatigue
live chains
loathe to lift themselves
yet imperceptibly intertwined
in our legs again. Let’s lie down
by the stream (she knows
she’s older than her name)
and sink in. The poems
we speak in sleep,
thick with reeds and wet
with recent rains, may camouflage
our foreign origins. The moon,
she is a soft lens.
I Am the Sea
I listen to myself
before falling asleep
and the waves
press dark dreams
into my cheeks—
months of rain,
you away—
Only the gulls’
morning calls
pull me awake.
Rimmed in Water
You ought to walk down
to the creek this time
of year, all crisp
and sun-cheeked, fallen leaves
and forest floor
to your knees. A deep pool
waits, with trees
and a shy trout and a crayfish
who never comes out. I think
they are the ones
the framed song
in the library
is about.