More Than a SphereThis uneven cube with slanted angles just won’t do for a table. There is no balance-point for your cup. There isn’t a word to speak me the way the word “ocean” disregards the fish. If you seek only my moonlight, you will miss the peculiar fullness of my shadows. wild strands of the stringed universe these silvering braids
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prescribed burn the dead carry on as wind burlwood the deformity of beauty forest hike the eyes of lost limbs follow me how many sapphires does the ocean contain within its depths along the surface of my skin you will know infinity Rising WaterFour years ago I traced this shore. My footprints threaded a needle of reeds. Thin grasses. Dry, flat rocks. Waves of limestone lapped by wind when afternoon sunlight made skillets of slabs. Four years ago I could walk this shore. Pick up fossils and coral reef shards. Could turn over rocks between my fingers. The world loves water until there’s too much of it. The water this year reached a record high, refuting all my ideas of shore between the cobbled wash and leaning cedars that spent their lives trying not to fall down. These words are all that remain of the shore. Next year, or perhaps a year after, nothing will say a shoreline ran here, except a line I want to imagine, the thread of words submerged in a poem. I wish history were told from end to beginning to know that anything that sees its reflection is fated to drown in astonishment or water when the world changes to outpace itself, though I’d be grateful to learn what an island knows. |
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