Somewhere between the wave’s rise  
and its folding back into itself,   
I felt the salt change weight in my hands.

The water no longer blurred the edges —  threads began to show through the foam, knots glinting like shells in the shallows.

I was still wet with the reading,  
but already leaning toward the loom,   ready to watch the weaving happen.



.

“Over‑Shoulder Weather”


I have walked the length of my sentence
long after the gates unlatched,
counting the gravel underfoot
as if each stone might still accuse.

The years have grown moss over my name,
but transgression carved into memory’s vestibule
means there is always one chair turned away,
its back carved with the shape of my absence.

I have mended the fence,
stitched the torn sleeve,
poured water into the roots I once scorched—
but the wind still carries
a syllable I cannot unhear.

So I move,
but not without the weight of glancing—
a pilgrim with a mirror in his pack,
catching the ghost of my own retreat.

And forward is a road
that keeps folding back on itself,
a loop of weathered timber and rain‑dark stone,
where even the horizon
wears my shadow like a borrowed coat,
and the door I step through
is always the same vestibule.








.

“Foment in the Firmament”


There is a stirring above the stillness,
a slow‑brewed unrest
braiding itself into the blue.

Cloud‑veins thicken,
their edges bruised with light,
and the air tastes of iron and distance.

Somewhere, a wind rehearses its entrance,
curling through the rafters of the sky,
its breath warm with the scent of rain not yet born.

Birds wheel lower,
their wings cutting arcs in the charged flush,
as if tracing the script of what is coming.

The sun, half‑veiled,
becomes a coin passed from palm to palm
in a game no one admits to playing.

And I stand beneath it all,
feeling the pulse of that high conspiracy —
the foment in the firmament —
gathering its syllables,
ready to speak in thunder.




.

"An Ill‑FittingHalo"

tilted— never quite resting
where the light intends
edge catching on stray hairs
like thoughts
that refuse to be tamed
a slip of brightness
sliding into my eyes blinding,
not blessing

I walk with it anyway—
crooked grace
clinking faintly in the wind
sometimes it spins
like a coin still deciding
which face to show the world
and sometimes
it is only shadow remembering
the gold it once held





.

parched wind, salt‑tongued
from the far edge of the bay,
licks the last drift of
mauve jacarandas.

in the tin‑roof blush,
I hear the slow heartbeat
of soil— patient, cracked,
still keeping the memory of rain.

I walk the market’s narrow spine,
hands grazing mango skins,
the laughter of vendors lifting
like myna birds into a sky
just beginning to remember itself blue.

and when night comes,
the stars lean low
enough to touch my forehead—
reminding me this place
is both root and horizon,
a country that holds me
as much in absence as in light.





.