the thing about poetry
is that it's loose like sand.
it slips between fingers
and finds its way everywhere
like the words that seem to ebb
and flow into and out of me,
like the sea of which the sand
shares companionship. you
can't quite contain all that
matter. all that matters you
can't quite contain. the thing

about poetry is that it makes me
feel, even when feeling feels empty
or wrong or redundant or gross and
it really does make me think
that you can't contain and define
all that is there to be said about
poetry. poems are significant
in that they can be insignificant
and again, loose and ubiquitous
like sand. small particles, so tiny
and numerous they matter so much.

and the thing about me is
that i am small but not
ubiquitous. i am not god who
is omnipresent. i am not sand
who sticks its nose into every
single thing and leaves a memory
of sea and space. i am tiny
and forgettable. but in this poem
i see myself, my reflection of which
leaves me until i reach out and it says,
"you are poetry itself."

In a castle of sand

What are we breathing
What are we wasting
What are we protecting

Why did we build this castle
Why did I build this castle

I built it to leave it behind
I built it to love
I built it to live

The collapsing tide lurks
with rogue waves
gathering energy,
swaying to the moon
until it returns to upend
the diligent castles
we’ve built of sand

Warm daze, when you wore flowers in your hair,
sleepless nights with your shawl wrapped 'round us both,
under glowing moon, paradise was there,
the blue of the night from the undergrowth,
down a dark garden, so far from daylight,
sharing the night with the sounds from the wild,
if the howls frighten you, I'll grip you tight.
With black flowing hair, in perfect mess styled,
take me to the beach, bury me in sand,
don't you know you are my approaching tide?,
the broken finger on the other hand,
for you, all of my doors lay open wide,
to places unknown and all things unplanned,
we'll hide there in golden castles of sand.