Patterns
September 7, 2011
Rooster, birds, bells, agua agua agua, GAS GAS!
the day begins to summon me; I haul my bones
overboard, the bed my boat, my ship shipwrecked upon a shore
where waves mimic passing highway tires, hiss wet sounds
I knew when I was young and lived beside the sea.
Where I walked the shore the sand wrinkled at low tide
like now my skin, the low tide of my life. How strange it is:
every pattern replicated, mackerel sky, drying sand, aging skin,
as though creation gods imagined fewer forms than we can.
2010 - present
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