This is what it means to be out to sea
If you fall in she will eat you
And she'll spit you back out as driftwood and pebbles
To make sure you know
That nothing can live without eating the dead
New willows sprout from decayed redwood trees
And if you fall down the ground here will eat you
And spit you back out as a fern or a bloom
Of lilies or mushrooms
This is what it means to be with me
If you fall in, I will eat you
And we will die our deaths, little and sweet

And no one here is sorry
And no one here writes poetry

Poetry is for ghosts
It is a trick of the light, the grey chatter of rain
Blooming magnolias and mist in the morning
It is the salt smooth smell of wood tossed to shore
And the way everything here feels just a little bit more
So I fall into my head, and spit me back out in strange rememberings
I drag up old lovers, plant words in their chests
They are my stories, my little deaths
The carious peat from which I grow
And no one here is sorry, for I know
That this is what it means
To be out to sea

I am sorry
I never got in line with those cars,
couldn't bear to pass you by, my downpour lover,
without a taste of your sharpsweet fruit.

Zenith of my troubles,
you are naught but a blackberry bramble,
the stars were laughing every night I held you,
and I am out of shovels.

(A Song to Me)**

Write your love inside your eyelids, cast verses on
Sweet violets.
I have drawn for you a map
Of story and of song.
Point your feet toward the sea, take it with you when you’ve gone.
Each hand will carve the other.
For this is all there is to know of love;
Two beings carving one another.
Presented as a present, all wrapped and tucked and clean,
Tied with dandelion string,
Clothed in cream-colored linen, walking near the ocean,
The taste of a faraway notion, this
Is all there is to know of love.
A room of books, a room of birds,
A line to hang your dresses and your sheets,
Brass bowls of tangerines,
Willow-bark dreams.
Inside, even the snow is sweet.
This is all there is to know of love.
Sad selves sold soft to willing souls, we are
Only a little drunk, not like last time,
Or the time before.
We are milk and we are honey, we are coffee in the morning,
Our soil is rich and never rocky,
The sky is clear and often sunny,
Good rains fall each year, and the weather changes slow
So our gardens always grow.
We eat tomatoes from the vines,
Read our fortunes in the lines
On palms that have been calloused by our years
Of digging through the dirt in our past loves’ chests, darling, someday you will rest.
Each love will be a map for the you that is to come,
Each loss will be a song.
This is all there is to know of love.
You will walk a thousand sunshines, let your hair grow long, until
Someday,
Hands stained red with beets, you’ll be laughing in a kitchen with your lover,
You will sleep in tangled sheets.
You’ll have smile lines, clear eyes, and freckles on your arms.
Someday, a wraparound porch,
A trickling stream,
The sound of little feet.
Smiling, always smiling, you are everything that beats.
You are everything that sings.
This is all there is to know of love.