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 … Continue Reading ››

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.