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.

Balance**
                                              
                                                                ­                      makes for incredibly boring poetry.

It rained for five days straight
The sky washed us, washed
The summer down the river and when we woke up
All our freckles had gone and
Our hearts had slowed
The leaves had turned
Everything was beautiful
To distract us from the fact that
Everything was dying
And nothing hurt

She looks at me like I could fix her
And I think that I would
If I were kinder