the sea troubles me with metaphors
like fishermen in their boats clogging its holes
their fear makes no sound like love
rutted in a bed of rose petals
in the lousy, enormous waves
the tambourine clangs like a heart, there is a cushion
pleated on the sea bed for anchor
I will never know.
I fell asleep, rapt, wary,
in shipping lanes
I supposed he saw me
in the corners of leaden street
back in September leaves blew
mornings strike on windows
preoccupy the alleys, foster-
after a gap- the aged melancholy
in my eyes.
he saw me
As I surf in cooling waters
its depth cracking up from deep word surfaces
tied to my tongue
knowing we've come too far
to discourage irreversible tears.