Strange heart
beats centrally
spreading blood
and love to the
periphery.
There are times
when I
have to hold my
hand to my chest,
close my eyes and
imagine you there.
Frail ribs like
beats centrally
spreading blood
and love to the
periphery.
There are times
when I
have to hold my
hand to my chest,
close my eyes and
imagine you there.
Frail ribs like
papier-mâché fingers
do little to protect
sand and glass
from slipping through.
However way I move
they grind and cut
into you.
And sometimes I forget;
you play your strange drum
at frequencies too low
for my ears to register.
It's during these days
I find a tethered peace
one syllable, one smell,
one sideways glance away
from sound waves
crashing back again.
I can't tell
whether I am captive or embraced
by the familiar roar and crush,
until exhausted,
my limbs crumple
saturated with saltwater
evaporated (having been left to dry);
the weight of the sea in my eyes
just a vision.
Once I blink,
All is right.
--1/31/2012
(II)
The feelings come in waves
(II)
The feelings come in waves
like a dark tide
bearing me under.
I can't stand
or understand
when the saltwater swell
wells up at my throat
and breaks against my eyes.
I tumble
like a glass bottle,
the green ripple of my body
unable to melt into
atmosphere, but
ready to crack and dash
against seafloor and coral,
bits of me lost in the sand
to mix in other people's wounds.
Wounded
is what I am,
what I let myself remain
so I say,
if someone could just lift me out
of the undertow--
but I'd never let them.
The pull is too strong,
I say,
I'll take your message
but I won't take you;
move along, or
I'll push you away.
When the glass around my heart
chips away,
secretly I hope they end up in someone's eye
because I never could
whole.
Small and unassuming;
[not small enough,
not enough]
But the sea means no malice
though I antagonize it.
It is as unaffected as
everything else.
The glass bottle, the poetry,
the tears that sink into it
like drops among infinity--
are exactly that.
--4/15/2012
