About the signs,
Red flags,
Or happy notes,
Scented mail-box-pine?

Did they explain in ways that you could hear,
Spell his name in your tongue for your ear,
Draw in the lines from his mirror?
Or was it fear?

The sketch artist quit long ago,
What was the crime,
What was the trouble?

Oil spill words,
Gold that chokes out the birds.
Thought we could be deep,
But only sip from the sea.
And into the bay,
I promise to only stain the sand,
Until you look away.