the floating poem below the tide pool

the grove of shredded eucalyptus, no.
not the reel of broken film scratched as a coral reef.

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 monument, i am not patient but 
read the floating poem, the one outside the window 
until splinter of the collarbone,
heartbeat in chestnut teeth for years-

a spell of lust and lonesome 

the floating poem below the tide pool

but now i am not a woman driving 
along the bow of sea- the cusp of
my tailbone lengthening- my foot bone
arching out, a bird's foot. anchor less 
body, i cannot 
be what i meant to 
be- though no story
recorded as grooves or tree rings or
even ineptitude

we argue in the headlands and i am a field of wheat grass walked through
pushed down with the temples of wrists
nothing more, then: no one to love, no one to leave

my father had a slideshow of mountains and hands
and good deeds
do i shave or grow out
the thin black hairs
quivering above my lip