I was travelling
in part by the river,
in part by the sea.

she goes to the beach with her shoes on -
yet longs to dip her feet in the water
the waves come crashing towards the shore, with open arms inviting her
but afraid, she steps away
only allowing the water to ever-so-slightly
kiss the tip of her shoe
a little more than the tip, and she scurries back panicked
though never turning away from the water,
she gazes still, pining with regret
oh she’s so tempted ~
as the wave ebbs, she inches towards the receding boundary
though unable to cross her own.

the wave, patient as ever, gives her another chance
and another,
lovingly,
incessantly,
it moves closer, extending its welcome
but she scurries back again
thinking about damp socks, or even worse
wet, sandy feet.
how was she supposed to get home with ease?  

distracting herself, she looks up at the night sky
though not the stars, she remembers instead their counterparts
the stars twinkling within those almond eyes -
smile brighter than the sunshine, aura peaceful like moonlight
laughter louder than crashing waves
but presence fleeting like butterflies.

what would happen if she acted too late?
unlike the waves, the smile would fade
those eyes would turn away, leaving her in the shade ~
driven with the fear of loss, she finally plunges, unafraid.

she’s in the moment, one with the sea
she can think about how to get home, only when she needs to be.

~
Time is a dark feeling
—the spell of a vanishing loveliness;
in the present mist
the imperatives in the wind
move less and less.

Haul away the anchor,
this is not a safe place.

Between insufficient coasts
—a land of look behind—
science is dead,
pessimism in the remaining oar,
and flies in the eyes of the Queen.
Their graves decorate the spine
on the east bank
they call Euthanasia,
each crucifix made of plasticine.

There's a discursive quality to the sea,
I can see the pearl fishermen,
the empty dancehall,
victims of latitude and eclipse.

I can see the tattered sleeves
of Edmund Fitzgerald and the pockets
of emptiness inside,
hoping to quell the hunger
of the cruelest month.

I can see an underwater country,
colonized by the unborn children
of pregnant African women
thrown off of slave ships
during the Middle Passage.

I can see myself sinking;
farewell my sorrow,
keeping precarious time
against a backdrop
of silence less and less;
its final sound being
that of seagulls
flying away into the distance
—a force of nature that’s
both solemn and inspirational
in equal parts.
~

I feel it most when he’s gone,
At first it doesn’t feel like much
But the bruise on the cheek where he kissed me
Only gets sweeter to the touch

Like salt left on skin
From a swim in the sea
The remnants of him
On my body debris

My heart is bleached
By the sun of him
When he leaves, I’m still his
Every bone, every limb

you are a fleet upon my shoreline
in mid-december
in the decline
of the seasons.
my impulse is to keep you captive
in an ocean net made to capture fish
i am not unforgiving so i despise this new version of me
there are shipwrecks to be uncovered
and sandy shores to be explored
there are glass shards in the hearth of my heart
they’re from shattered mirrors lying beside the bedside
that i drove a single fist in upon interpreting the impersonal reflection
i have remorse for the way my lighthouse light caused your tiny rowboat to become one with the island i inhabit
i have regrets for the way i watched your salt-licked body drag itself to shore
and let the possibility of you dying linger gently
i let the sea swallow you too quickly
if i obstruct my view, it’s just the lapping of the sea;
just the constant reminder of its immensity.

He who walks
Will find that
The stinging
summer sun
Leads the loved ones
Over clear waters.

Beneath elegant
Palm trees
That when time to
Take a break
It creates a shade
Like no other.

The perfect place to sit,
Only when the flourishing
Mountains casts a shadow
On the other side of
The extensive range.

Even so, it’s such a
Beautiful place to sit.

More when the made
Of fat and skinny and
Happy and sad and
Continuous life
Is there to observe
The sunset that
Changes the sapphire
Blues to flaming oranges

Ready to be taught by
The twilights of the
Most unfortunate and
The seducers.

A dark tunnel
Where the Young
Women jog
And the cows
And the pigs
Have tasted blood
And the morning sun
Is taking a little
Longer to come up.

Tunnel
that can only
Be traverse with
Experience and
Burning cinnamon.

And oh, evil one.
The night will cast an
Eternal veil.

And what an enormous,
And eternal night this is.

What a lonely night.

And evil one,
Between the burning sea
And the pale morning,
You’ll find the quiet
Of husks and dead fish,
Trembling foam of
Retreating waters,
And messages in bottles
Never read before.

And silence will come
Wrapped in a blanket,
Galloping on beach *****
And flying machines that
Leave faster than they go.

It’ll cure the absence of warmth
While the days, the months,
The time passes by.

The morning will come,
Brandishing celestial blood,
Turning the sea ablaze.

To let you know,
That you have escaped
Once more.