Pacifico

When we were in Cloud 9
you asked me what it's like to
be with you. I didn't know it then
but I think I do now. When I am
close to you, I feel like I am near
the ocean. Maybe if I listen
close enough, I'd feel the warm
rooftop of Pacifico's lighthouse
and hear the sound of big,
barreling, beautiful waves.

// Oct 2017

Puka Beach

I remember a photo of us,
you and I,
all smiles and innocent
of a night
yet to come. Behind us
the surf was unruly,
violent, the
sound of waves
crashing in
a lost memory. A vast
space of sky
and sea huddled us
together, as if
our bodies, our lives,
were too big
to fit in the lens:
you and me,
at a singular time,
on a singular frame,
were held so close
so briefly.
What were we before
any sign showed itself?
Unprepared to enter
the same fold
of warm, white sand, we
were drawn
each into each, lost
in the other,
under a distant, jealous moon.

// Aug 2017

Secret of the Sun

There is nothing surprising about the sun.
It comes, brightens this dark side of the earth,
and leaves, just as it has for a million years.
And while it still burns even when it is night,
and while it goes on to unlock the beauty
of a flower, like a million others I was blind
to its total simplicity and predictability.
After all, our lives revolve around it, so do
thousands of creatures fleshed out of this earth,
all circling the sun as one colossal organism.
Six months ago, I have decided to awaken
at the electric blue of dawn, wrap a blanket
around myself, put my slippers on, and walk up
a long staircase to the rooftop, where the sun
would slowly rise as a circle of naked radiance.
Some days it hides behind smog, clouds, rain;
Other days from across the sea or mountaintop
its steady warmth tears through fog and haze,
and draws peels of mist from the skin of trees.
Wherever I am, the sun gives without question,
births an infinite wondrous things, and destroys
as easily with the flick of a tongue. And while
I have seen the sun a hundred times and
marveled at the shades and shadows it stirred,
it is only at this hour that the sun gazes back
at these eyes whose pits lead to vacant interiors.
Day by day, the sun comes to shine through
and illumine the dark, unreachable chasm within:
that claw of guilt, that blow of shame, that lust,
that perpetual replay of persecution and burning.
One by one, the phantoms dissolve and disappear,
and in their place a lightness of being settles in.
And when I forget to get up at dawn, the sun
in its utter stubbornness and radial affection
continues to rise in the drowsy eye of my dream:
a perfect hole of light, pure and silent, coming
ablaze in the clear sky of my consciousness.

// Jul 2017

Darkling

As night drops from the edge of dawn,
his silhouette rolls out from the sea,
curling in the surf across the horizon,
ripping blue water from cold sky free.

Kite-strung, he is the primeval child
tamed of brutal wind and ocean rush,
breathing in salt, drinking in the wild
sea spray, feeding on swells and hush.

And as things catch that divine hour,
night shade warms slowly into gold,
like a fine man growing ever younger
the more the world turns a new day old.

Gently thickening, his wind-forged body
bottles in the stars and escaping night;
with sun-bared skin he is starkly darkly
in the milky foam and the rising firelight.

Toes sunk deep in the sand, I am stunned
that half the earth rests on an empty vault
until my darkling spills his purpling band
of a thousand starry grains of salt.

// Mar 2017

Move

When an echo
rounds a cave
it leaves behind
a sound engraved.

When a leaf
falls in the wind
it carries through
as though winged.

When a pebble
drops in an ocean
it ripples out
rings in motion.

When a glance
breaks all distance
it blurs everything
but this instance.

// Nov 2016

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