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The Visitors

The Visitors


The ocean does not like
your favorite white makeup
ignore this
take a clean sheet
and wipe more poetry
out of your brush.

Your finger
rubbed over the anatomical diagram
feels good
to the future patient
focus on this
and the missing walls
will be forgotten.

Did you notice
those pitiful little ripples
crossing the sails?
they reveal
the winds’ frailty.

The anchors
are stuck in old skies
on the seas’ bottom.
The harbor is full
of fallen rain.

At dusk
smoky fires
burn on the shores

The moon
wears your favorite white makeup.

The Golden Bowl

The Golden Bowl


You spent your whole life
learning the perfume’s formula.

They found your nose
locked in a drawer
it smelled good.

Your sisters
were three golden snakes
writhing in a tree
by the river
at twilight
your questions
made them invisible.

They put you in a glass jar
and set you on a shelf
they wanted you
to feel like tea
waiting for water.

Now you’ve turned
to a yellow dust.

We’ve tried our best
to preserve your flavor
protecting you
from the blue flames within
and the lost odor
of space.

Sea Change

Sea Change


we’re cleaning
the ocean

I go deep
looking for dust

water relaxes
lets sun
in further

islands
explore downward

whales disappear
leaving holes
that swim

fish
sip rain

giant squids hide
on earth’s
night side

hot mermaids
swim to the poles

Falling Fish

Falling Fish


Trying to swim
into a poem
you tear
through a paper wall
only to find
you’re off a cliff.

An ocean wave
far below
breaks on rocks
spray rising to meet you
which is O.K.
because you’re a fish
and it’s been a long time
out of water.

You wonder
if fish have tongues
you ask your mouth
it says no
you grow one anyway
swifter, longer
than your falling
plunging it deeply
a moment before
you arrive
down to lick
the sea’s bottom

Capped Lavendar

Capped Lavender


I am hidden
in the light of a perfume shop
a cracked amethyst
probably dark
on my tongue.

I seek
a trivial rainbow
substandard in yellow.

To leave I must enter
a sunlit stomach
it keeps dust dry
and golden smells
in my aura

Walking through wind
I tread a blind light
unaware of a hand
entering my pocket
curving past fog
to fondle capped lavender

ASTERISM

Asterism


The star problem
how to prevent lights
of vastly different ages
from mixing with the present.

Maybe a canopy
over the forest
by dark spiders woven
if we find
woven densely
a giant blindfold
who would stand there all night
holding it.

And moonlight?

No way to protect
the ocean from starlight
no canopy big enough
to anchor all the shores
until fish have eyelids.

Maybe best
to seep it in
falling through ocean,
resurfacing clouds,
coloring rain,
drunk, bathed in,
glowing in tombs,
helping dirt into roots,

each one
born in a corner.