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.