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.
