more
is the occasion

than not
but less than before

washed up on the shore
relics of shells

broken sea bells
that crescent the strand

cloudy brown or green or white
that gentle rub of decay

or whatever might
seek display

jeweling the sand
i keep to myself

jarred away
on a shelf

drunkclumsy
with the drop

of it
tap past

to gather
dulling

in the doorway
god only knows

what
un


               d            e             f           e           at           e           d
               d            e                                      at                                     h


does
with so many seams

breaking brittle by
and the sky

blue sky

in the fields
the hay

has been cut
and dried

the final sunflowers list
and fade

to the west
a line

of aspen trees
sigh

at the touch
of october light

two crows
call out

and hold their own
against the hawk

how will you journey
out of this life?

how will you find
that brief dark door?

what will your music
sound like?

i have never witnessed their dawn departures
or joined in their preparations

what the taste of wind might tell
what clues the clouds or the sea reveal

but each time i wake and notice the boat gone
i keep an anxious eye to the horizon

i have watched their return enough times to now know
how to position the heavy plastic tubes in the wet sand

how to hold the bow perpendicular to the shore
to the keep the waves from washing in

where to place my hands
and the exact angle needed to lift and leverage the boat

rolling it onto the tubes
and then up the sharp incline of the beach

i have learned
how to help

so much so that two of the pescadores
now smile clap me on the back

and say
la próxima vez que vengas con nosotros