I’m trying to understand —

What does this ocean mean right now?
It’s voice is soft, I barely hear

The words its forming in the waves
I stand, attenuated, like a deer —

But stillness breaks before it forms
My mind, it never finds repose

Whatever, now, this ocean meant
Is lost to space,
For heaven
Only
Knows

Snapshot: Pecan Orchard

The aged have seen off many years,
The wise ones understand —
The orchard’s slumbering, and cold,
As is the land —

I wish that I bore other fruit,
But from this, there’s no fleeing —
The tree that I was born to be
I’ll end up

Being

First Glass

Don’t tell him it’s not possible.

He drank his first glass while watching the sun go down over the bayou, enjoying the warm air and the sounds of reggae music.

When she arrived, minutes later, he realized, instantly, that it is possible for something perfect to become even more perfect.

Snapshot: The Morning After

She walked out of the trailer
Into frigid Winter air
And left the boy she’d met last night
Alone and sleeping there

She heard the softish crunching
Of the snow beneath her feet;
And pulled her jacket tighter
To keep in her body’s heat

She walked to a convenience store
A half a mile or so
Where she bought her some breakfast
And a coffee cup to go

And as she headed back
She thought about the night she’d had
And said: you know this growing up
It isn’t that half bad

On An Old Abandoned Hospital

“I’s” unknown,
So many “they’s”,
From untold places,
Bygone days,
In rooms for healing,
Pass away:
We know this.
But we just

With our contumely
Carry on,
We’re here —-
What matters who is gone?
We think
It isn’t real, beyond,
A faint remaining
Crust

An echo, an
Enablement,
A bill of life
That’s elsewhere spent;
We needn’t hear
What there was meant,
Nor sit down to
Discuss

The primitives
Who came before,
Who lay in here,
Or built this door,
Whose tears and blood
Call from the floor,
“All dust is made
  Of us —“