Ocean

The word dying is dying

       it has no more resonance

          no appeals


      something pure life

       is battering pier legs to take its place

                 liquid turquoise streamers

           
          over sea rocks slimy
               our anticipation


           the person

                with no address

       
             the address

                    with no person


          they are falling in love

Amulet

   Conscious living
      in a wave
         Put your hand here
      I don't know how
         to cut out
     around this shape

                but no worries
             I do not believe

                  it is your true shape

Confess

The egomaniacs in art are as the salt in the sea. But we are the waves. As the waves. That strikes me now as an egomaniacal thing to say. For the sun is shining.  But we must speak as the ocean. We do as the waves, putting salt in touch with other salt. Such friction. It is funny work. I was walking along the ocean one morning this October and a rose had washed up in the night. It was bedraggled from the waves, all that travel. Her terrible, lovely hair. Entwined in a white grosgrain bit of string. There must have been a wedding party at sea. I visualized them barefoot. I visualize you barefoot. Always. This tells you more than I wish to confess.

Darling

There is a line in the window.
There is a line in the window in the moisture
through which you can see through.
Through which you can see through other things.
There is a line.
There is a line in your head.
Or you think of it as a line.
The sentence is visualized as a line.
There is a line in the fog outside.
There is a line in the fog outside the window
with the line in the moisture
through which you are looking.
You don't feel like a camera obscura
but maybe you are.
You feel more like a moviehouse
cushioned in fog.
This is why I find you darling.