At Sea

The tide’s return
is what we await.

It matters less
the distance drawn

in lengths of spools,
spinning prowess

& lean instruction.
Pressure pushes

forth through the days,
the yawning fold

of anymore, of driving
through the green.

From here I see
the tops move along.

There are reasons
why the grass grows

straight & why
winnowing pride

stalks around
on long legs.

The sea welcomes whatever
it meets on the sand.

The Difference Between a Coast

Distant shores open
to isolating streams

while building fortitudes,
something blue & holding

We have been places

But how to get away
from undue doors

to what will quiet the chair
as it is pulled across the floor

Under unleavened
moments our heads

turn & the lights are strung
across & are strung low

& will swing alone inside
the room after the last

person who brushes
up against them is gone

Cutting Board for the Universe

Through rounded windows
grace rolls over. It is good

to be below ground until
you are not, drawing room

from funneled light to rest
upon this ledge & feel safe.

Having learned to push
our way through tunnels,

this incision’s silhouette riffs
pockets of air. There are days

when we are spared, when the color
of sky doesn’t change, only darkens.