August 21


The surface of the sea becomes
red feathers on the steady back
and forth of the bear fired by the sun
as he stops on the sand, says,
why stop there?

Dip your finger again and draw my loves,
my children, my futures,
my shadow in a lamp,

horses playing on confetti, cats
ambulating into orange rabbits
among fruit pickings. Stop not.
Draw swift as tigers striking
the sun green with their lime-colored calls.

They remind me of something I found
under a stone big as a grave:
a smiling jaw, eyes that smelled
of coriander and peach
and an echo that moved
the sand to glass.

One Comment