Brazen chipped callous lines side of left toe, stretches, white, as I stretch wide— toe pockets marked with shadows echo tide pools and wave drops pitter sand from the mat of the car. Chalk elbows graze along the grey window sill, dragging slip lines of dust mites bits of me I haven’t missed.
The sands tell tales of arduous tracks of long, lumbering earthy strides; there are those before me who have pressed the sand with leaden burdens and dragging hearts, the prints of souls unsatisfied. Then there are
My praise is but the catacombs of waves the stuff of ant children and young sunflowers. Waves speak quieter than I, and go much further. I wave, the whole earth grows— how my arrogance is so!
Cosmic harmony dances upon toes, & the sun which sweeps arm hairs to spring bouquet, (so fit for a gala) keeps time.
The sea— at the lip of which I sink, slow silly my toes in sucking black sand perch the heavy surf swell tunneling past my ankles –still hasn’t made up its mind.
The black bird on a black tree sprouting black leaves whistles at me; me, in my blended sweater wooden bench my skin dipped caramel and the glint of inside lamplight against my watch face.
Sun shades ripple over black ant dunes and I, cast, with earth toes spread uneven relaxed am tall and small and quiet. My hair, golden unkept electric the rogue wind calls my soul responds.
As I nap in the currents of undiluted ocean with its vibrant sea salt cleansing my salty soul, I notice: I am taller here. Cast long, with the shadows uninterrupted by anything– my shadow is graceful and still and I wonder: what might she be thinking?
When my body wakes me. It’s still dark. I open the window above my bed. The whispering dawn snuggles down. Down into my hair. Down into the space between me and my sleeping bag. Which I sleep in despite the closet full of sheets. The whispering dawn lifts me out. Out into my running shorts. Into my cheetah print bandana. Into my bright blue … Read More Composting
I’ve noticed, today, that I gotta write with my shoes off— with my bare naked happy toes wiggling hello to the world; else this mirror soul be closed til June
in a black rubber suit zipped to mid-chest, the two sides flapping in the sea gusts, flapping to the beat of the lurching dinghy and up and up and down down to the choppy Arabian waters, his bare foot braced on the lip of the bow foot tendons flexing, whooping unbridled as the sea spray leaps to his curls— pauses his laughter for … Read More The French Diver
I wake up the long way this morning: my fire reflects last night’s hearth the ashes cold the glass remembers. Cold cuts grow like cast iron Sundays & I find it so easy to blink slow.