i want to read you

i want to read you;

i want to feel your words

slip over me, pull me into

their tide, strip me down with

their waves without trying.

 

i want to listen to the music

of your thought, follow it

into the forest, happen upon

a leprechaun and wood spryte

making gold, making love.

 

i want the letting of all this

matter into energy; these

disguises to fall away, the

memories of mountain-tops

to sway in their return.

 

i want to deep-dive into a

painting of a thousand sun-

sets, moments spent think-

ing of you; of our writing, of

our meeting: one and the same.

we are time less

here i am, perched on the edge of earth’s balcony.

the beach at night—how i’ve missed it, the way the sea and sky merge into one big dark blue sigh;

the way the soft black-blue cushions you, makes you forget your fluorescent fears, makes you let go of the artifice, makes you feel like anything is possible, makes you feel;

the way this buzz goes deeper, into the curves of your being, winding through your veins and vessels and tunnels and channels, climbing through your cochlea with a vibrating message: you are alive;

the way the sand digs into every part of you and forces you to be present, to feel every granule, every atomic angle, measured out;

the way the clouds open up just enough to show you a sliver of moon, of reference and reminder on this glint-edge of spoon;

how it makes you really feel the earth, the roundness, the expanse, the way she takes full breaths, the way you could just fall off the ledge, disappear and be swallowed up into the depths.

we step into the tide and feel the grains and rocks and tease of seaweed and slip-slide of shells. we talk about sharks and the recent attacks and how the ocean is their natural habitat, and we are the real infestation;

we talk about death, and life, and family, and memory, and poetry, and cycles, and the canals we all move through, and the sounds, and the barriers we try to put up, and the way liquid light still pushes in;

i think about you, standing next to me, sitting so close to me in the sand, breathing this same air, sharing this same lens and space, like a kind and sacred hand being offered up for us both to hold;

i think about you, sitting in that chair, looking up at me and into me while i act out my script, play my part in that beautiful-tragedy, soak up your smiles, walk shaking circles around that stage of words.

we talk about how we’ve been here before, and how we’ll be here again, when we’re old and still time-less and still connected.

i slip out of my coverings just a bit and feel the moon and water on my skin, just enough to make me levitate, forget land for a moment, all the ties that bind, all the promises and commitments and labels and losses and lies left—

you, like the night ocean, have that effect.

and in the midst of all this thinking and talking and surging and being—a miracle right at our feet! tiny slippery white flashes of light—riding in on the tide and seeming to fly right off the crest!

like the floating particles in the eye that you can’t really see or look at directly—we try, and then they’re gone.

we squint and bend down closer to try to make out their shape, follow them down the shore, but we can only see faint patches, glimmers of light, scurrying schools of squarish white blobs, round at points, shifting together and then apart—so rapidly we can’t pin them down.

but we know they’re there. we don’t know what they are, but we know we saw them. we’re glad we’re not alone; we have each other as a witness that this phenomenon was real, is real.

we wait for the next sighting, for the next mystery-swarm to come through; we’re amazed and six years old again and true.

we’re glad we’re not alone. we’re glad there’s always a miracle when we meet.

here i am, perched on the edge of earth’s balcony; and the show is free.

staying

Jean-Avenidas.-Sea-Glass

i stepped into an apartment once,
the basement apartment of a poet;

i could smell it in the cedar,
in the ink and terracotta.

i wanted to stay until she came back;
i wanted to know her, be in her

circle, trace her curves as she
spun her words from the earth.

too small, my friend said—
this apartment is too small.

i left with an ache that
stayed with me for days.

on my way out i touched a green
stone on a shelf by the door:

it may have been sea glass,
it may have been my birth stone,

it may have been my
birth right to say

i’m staying.


Art: Sea Glass by Jean Avenidas

light house

some people never open

their windows; they don’t

even know the light in their

own house: on a hill, up a wish,

 

down a well, over the bows

and arrows of this slant-death

that comes too quickly

and without discovery.

 

they don’t know the planes of

their own ocean floors, the jig-

saw spread and tongue-in-groove

lilt of sloping wood where you can

 

lie flat for hours and breathe

deeply for the first time in your

life: buried briefly far and away

from the shiny hammer of terror.

 

if you never attend to your

fear—to the full tilt and lift of the

continent sheets; the vast forms of ice:

the spite—you can never attend to your love.