A crude bowl, collection
of cast offs fashioned, loomless,
by beak—only a sieve
for the falling rain.With dagger, rope and pen
she taught us to harness that
celestial satellite—teller
of time, puller of tides—and
now, I wonder:
Have the rains been kind
to the banks of the Styx?,
Will the wet wings of Nephthys
be shelter enough?, Whose mother
is next?That space
between the brows
makes room, raining
a stillness through
charged coils of organ,
belly and bone—
finally.
A Memory
I’ll meet you
in that cave, the one
you dreamed of — stone,
cold, a memory of the sea. We
were born here, I’ll tell
you. Your eyes will climb
the walls, the
installation of time’s lapping
tongue. For a moment,
we will worry,
but be reminded that beginnings
(or endings or both) are void
of light until that instant
we transcend; the ocean
depositing us–foam
on the shore.
Horns for Saint Augustine
On the rise and fall
of the cicada song I
ride the swells–
too hot black top driveway, a
younger mother,
fearlessness and lessons
learned–horns for
Saint Augustine
in the distance.