My Empty Ears Listen for the Shore

My Empty Ears Listen for the Shore

Windpipe

Most throats are more
drainpipes than foghorns.

Happiness mimics the horizon,
its clarity dependent on distance.

An estuary froths
with a language of its own.

In stranded abalones
stranded ears thrive.

No wonder the water’s instinct
to haul ashore. No wonder
a seabird’s life demands to fathom.

Like no other, glut.
Let the word test its wings
against your wind.

Mind on Repeat

We call emotion the ways
we didn’t choose to think.

Under the night sky–if countless,
if really countless, the stars don’t count.
You do, and does.

How long it’s been to want
from scratch. Without an echo
of the past want.

So many sorry’s must feel sorry
they’re not redeeming enough.

Sorry for those who, by a leap
of faith, made love
for meal after meal without anyone
to say enough.

What's held
back comes
back in waves.

Soon there's no emotion worthy
of articulating.

On a Lighter Note

To know each flower
is mostly a stem.

Insects–the field, for they are
one and the same
from a distance.

In place of late fruits, simultaneous birds.

The sun lashes out
on the pond full of tadpoles, most
born to feed watersnakes.

Clouds drive off its margins.

The world’s filling up with them.

Was it not heavier before.