27.4.12

the floating poem below the tide pool


the molting days- thick at the gums and thick at the nails


highway one i only stretch wide at overlooks, Adrienne Rich dies forty miles
south of where i sleep. immediately, i want a a floating monument. i am not that patient so i re-read the floating poem, the one outside the window until splinter of the collarbone, heartbeat in chestnut teeth for years-

was it all a spell of lust and lonesome, the floating poem now below the tide pool


but now i am not a woman driving 
along the bow of sea- the cusp of
my tailbone lengthening


we argue in the headlands and i am a field of wheat grass walked through
pushed down with just the wrists