A faded blue wooden rowboat, sun locking on its splintered oars Pushed out from stalks of dog’s-tail and bamboo into covert tides Lips crack from the wind and heat, but moving with each stroke
Small jaunts into imaginary wars earns speed and displacement Nerves of raw cut birch, feet are iron anchors, eyes turn caution yellow Nothing soothes like maneuvering intricate jetties tangled in rock and kelp
In these currents, catching fish by hand, without viable strength Float through the wet night sleeping in the shallow hull Morning washes up near fishing nets, quick new voices on the broken dock Throw rope slips into the water, dive in stung by adrenaline-fueled gasps for vocal maps
Abandon the boat, the sky, and the bleeding war behind Short swift waves lock the hull against the shins and sand If only there were some marker, some inkling
On the roof in San Francisco, 2009
2007
November 2008
