On the tips of dried grass, I walk
bare footed aching to discover
where else a sea can be found when I am nowhere
close to the pacific roaring waves of my flat coastal city where angeles hum by the sea
and concrete kisses are copious to the flat soles of the huaraches,  plastic sandles and warm enough to be called friendly to the rubber soles of long haired girls on skateboards riding down the boardwalk

Where is the sea in this winter
when the chest holds tight to the air and wishes to expand for terror of the cold

long hours pass, dried stems come into focus
when the parched
glory of brown reveals itself as an abundance of  blades of grass marchitas to the two traveling
arches of my feet

what is grass in winter if not my answer

There is an artist who walks into dreary hospitals and law offices
to accompany his partner
he cannot paint the walls of these building  the color he desires but he paints a smile-one so pleasant it calms-on his girlfriend face

every earthly moment seems beautiful and fleeting when it trickles like the light through a window to illuminate your smile

as passing mourner and expectant mothers are en route the same sun drapes them and a similar ephemeral breeze grazes my face

all is precious and the heart cannot help but to exalt this truth when rays slowly make their way to the edge of your chin before they disappear

sometimes the earth flies away from me
drips through my fingers
slipping like thick honey into cups I have left out for too long
too many handled mugs on the counter that I confuse them for
confuse past with what is now

I as I wake try to shake this dream of something that never came to be because I
would love to pour my morning tea into along with the wildflower honey into a fresh cup

Three people paint the subway station with life
the horn announces that the next train is coming bound for the seoul

You look at squares photographs of people
as if they were isolated drawings of a dandelion or a primrose
you take the person and disconnect them from the root
from the dark soil and the sunlight that grew them into beautiful blooming
beings
you study their exterior
look at them as if they were peeled carrots
peanuts without the shell

the black & white image measured in distance only by the ticks of a clock and the cycles of human life sits on my chest

all the gentleness and love cannot be measured by digital clocks nor can a heart
for its growth is limitless