Begin with
something
broken—

a bone,
a heart,
a home—

collect
the pieces
carefully

and work
them over

over time

tumble and polish
tumble and polish

make the pain shine.

Last night
I lifted my head
to the sky
seemingly
not so far away
like my dog on the porch
listening
to the songs of the frogs
singing up a storm
I asked her, sweet mutt
of mine to interpret
their words
and she looked at me
as if to say
just listen my friend
they sing of the wind
and the pines
the ocean
that great saltwater dish
where we were born
and the coming
of a great tide
and how we should be
more kind
to our Mother
the Earth tomorrow
on her Birthday
they sing instructions
and warnings
of obituaries heard
in a thunderous warming
then she sighed
and closed her eyes
thumping her tail
in time with the chorous
as the moon
raised his great blind eye
up over the forest.

It makes more sense to give men flowers,
when you think about it.
After all some love women
and women are floral in nature
some men rush quick to pick
but crush in their hands
or neglect until they go dry from want.
you said your favorite flower is a spider lily
i know where you came to know those blooms
i run by the viewing station 3 days a week
they grow in the middle of the river
where an island of rocks makes the water slow
and a few guardian trees grow
you love flowers that take getting your feet wet to touch
and that you can never posses
by cutting, only by growth.

When I go out at night
trying to sweep up the stars
my woman grows weary
of the cold weather in me
she thinks I am with someone
else, but it is midnight
and I am alone with the moon
that woman in a red dress
standing on the beach
but you see, it is an empty
plate with no supper, or
maybe a piece of stationery
without a lover's phone number.

even now, the memories of yesterday  
cold and grey emerge from cracks and walls  
like ghosts who seek for no final soft places.  

there are words, and there are none
as you go back to the coffin house:  

where among warm corpses you have to endure  
the long and slow dance of night and day  

while breathing the air filled with words and voices
blooming from tongues soaked in poison and ash,  

may you return like a flower  
with the memory and hunger
for the firelight of stars and comets.

i thought i knew about
the waves,

i thought i knew about
the melancholy

of how the moon cycle
did curse the seas to

fold in and fold out
on command until

everything did pour out
onto the beaches;

exhausted.

a slave to cycles, they said!
well, the sea and a woman

they were always equal,
in that respect.

i thought i knew
about the internal

sense, how we do
anticipate tides of

distress to greet us
every so often by moonlight.

i expect it now; to
come home and weep,

but only by harvest moon,
and only by God’s hand.

so, here it comes,
the big one.

hormonal, chemical, awful
sickness; i wait for it.

no surfer skill could keep
me from falling prey to it.

nervous, so nervous
about the sea, pounding.

tricked into thinking,
that foresight was valuable.

that if i knew of its arrival,
i could yield, taste grass

instead of sands, coral
craggy beaches

where i am stranded
until spring rolls in.

so,

here it comes,
the big one.