(The ocean poem is dead. Long live the ocean poem!) Oh what havoc a hurricane can wreck, loosing stairs from houses, houses from stairs, lifting and carrying away years of construction to some arbitrary location and then burying all the roads. Of course, the map is not the territory, and this is not a poem about the ocean, it’s just, this time I am certain as a storm surge, and so also irrevocable— it’s like […]
(continuing on with the ocean poems in response to this business–) You tell me about Oaxaca. I tell you about the Gulf, and then we talk about how we both almost moved to Hawaii, once. Maybe we would have met there, too, you say, as we survey the skyline’s tines from out across the bay. It’s strange, how language tries to make distinctions between bodies of saltwater– they all commute, or aren’t we proof? […]
or love, death, or nature in general… Only five percent of the ocean floor is mapped. The rest is unknown— a deep subconscious we crawled out of, once, and return to as foreigners, except for the salt in our blood, and like some half -remembered song, our strange capacity for floating—
A neap tide now— so jealous of the shore but just think of how much ocean never once touches land so long have I endured this thirst have hollowed out and cambered bones to search and search and if I waver it is only as a breaker holds itself fleetingly in disbelief before it falls like thunder, and arrives, abruptly, finally—
Another day breaks like a bone, dragging me along to my chagrin– another night is gone before it’s gone, at least that’s how it felt on a scale of one to ten, a ten. It doesn’t help, this hesitating sky. The air feels thin, too brittle to breathe in– this ossified blue, it does not move me to move from rest. These recalcitrant breaths do not support it.
I had hoped to watch the sky fill in with stars, particularly the obscure ones reserved for the backcountry but fell asleep too early, having spent all night waiting for night to fall. Even late, the mountains glowed, echoing the Northern sun ringing out across the old burn zone, new brush rallying up dry avalanche chutes– so very little snow this year. Slowly, the lake receded into suggestion; an owl called lowly, both begging the […]
Heart, heart, what did I say? Oh the moon got into you, the moon, the sky, the lake— and then you went and showed your face, boldly, no hesitancy, and so now, we wait— How vast, this night. And just like that I can finally admit, it isn’t that I fear your loss— what terrifies me most is that some day you may be right. Or some evening, sitting […]
Oh heart, heart, heart. I will bury you deep below and see what grows– I don’t want to watch you working, anymore. Go cool off in a cellar. Go improve with age. I cannot stand your incessant green chatter— Go and let the sweet dark earth take your edge off and when I dig you out again, I will freely offer up your balanced sapor to anyone who would partake— that is, to any one […]
This is no paint fleck peeling in the heat. It is the scalene wing of a moth adhering to the wall, and if I love anything at all it is this sort of thing: soft subversives, surrealities, the dozen moths like unblinking lids that I see now where I couldn’t, before. As if I would begrudge a lack of luster! I know too well, this friable nature, how a sharp wind can lift away its […]
Night comes late now and when it does a corner of horizon still glows like an ember and so the day lingers, reluctant to cede, and the moon waits to show its only face again, starting to wax or starting to wane, how weary to be a constant, let alone be in constant motion, if I were the moon I might want to cease, to disengage, to hide away until here below the oceans went […]
OPTIONAL POETRY 