The Ocean Gets Dark As You Go Deeper

She seemed so unreal
as if her face
were a beautiful mask.

She held my head
in hers nightly, wrote
me in homemade ink.

Her letters weren't about
anything in particular, but
they were about me.

Her handwriting was jarring.
Each rounded character originating
from somewhere deep within.

They shivered in lamplight,
damp with ocean spray,
eyes dotted with hearts.

I put them deep
within my head
for safekeeping

just to hear their call,
feel their faint vibrations
in the dark water.

Take Heart

"Take heart
your house
is being towed
out to sea
as part
of the wildlife
reclamation act"

and the seagull clutching
the notice flew away before
I could get my lawyer.

Up

I am Carl Fredrickson.
My girlfriend was his wife.
Now all I need is an Asian boy...
That didn't come out right.

You Drew A Wonderfully False World

Chalk lines on a brick wall do not connect, yet
the “c” becomes a circle;
shades of gray
gain new dimensions.

The “c” becomes a circle,
looping lines recede into the sunset,
gain new dimensions.
Your meaning is conveyed.

Looping lines recede into the sunset
only to reappear at the shore.
Your meaning is conveyed,
obscured in distance.

It only appears at the shore.
You are the only one
obscured in distance.
You can hear your branches creak.

You are the only one
in a forest full of branches.
You can hear your branches creak.
Watch the others sway.

In a forest full of branches
your mouth is a knot hole;
watch the others sway,
smearing ink on paper.

Your mouth is a knot hole,
you never bear fruit
smearing ink on paper;
illusions out of colored dust.

My Grandmother's Chest Of Drawers

1.
Filled with coins bearing forgotten kings
it shudders under the weight. I burrow my hand
up to the elbow, fish out change from dead nations,
letting it sift between my fingers: caustic silt
many men lost their lives for, I'm sure.

2.
Always with a clink of medals, its opening jars me:
a brilliant flash of undiminished accomplishment.
The years left an impression, which can be felt
only by touch. A rush of nostalgia I don't own.

3.
They look like pens, vaguely. I try to write with
one, but it has no nub. They extend. I point to
locations on a map marked with multicolored pins.


4.
A bear carved from ivory stares blankly at a swan
made of glass, it's fragile neck wrapped in brown paper,
splinted with a tongue depressor. Open it carefully:
step by step and they won't be startled apart. She always
watched to make sure, lamplight dancing in the corners
of her eyes.