tide and time and fire (20210428)

the log on the sea
doesn’t remember the axe
but it knows the bitter cut
of icy salt water

the salty sea
buoys the log
and doesn’t know the petals
of flame within the wood
waiting to be released

at high tide
there is little chance to
to wash ashore

at low tide
it will be swept out
among the seals
and the gulls

maybe
another beach

bandages required (20210422)

blood
has memory
–i am told–
and holds on to old grudges
remembers the exact
temperature to begin boiling
–but has a few tricks
to lower the mercury–
rushes to the head
for the wrong reasons
thickens at the wrong time
turns poisonous and icy
and yet
still flows from every wound
the same color

the smallest
sharpest cuts
bleed the reddest

leave the thinnest scars

epitaph (20210421)

dead thing under the pier
i would mourn your passing
if you would identify yourself
you resemble an alligator
(but if so, you are far from home)
or some small, desiccated
formerly scaled dinosaur
washed up on the beach
luring my dogs under
the boardwalk
to roll in you

you are missed
ancient, stinking friend
and we are not so much
separated by millions of years
of evolution
as we are by a length of leash
and two lungs full
of salt water

web in the morning (20210420)

the morning sun
lights up a spider’s single strand
stretching across the trail
a filament bristling like glass
as bright as any fiber optic thread

it makes no sound
as i pass through
expecting the tight twang
of a snapping violin string
or the light bell ring
of breaking glass

filtered light (20210419)

i steady myself against
the rotten tree

it cracks
breaks
falls

carpenter ants scatter
confused by this
home invasion
domestic destruction
this kaiju of a man

breaking things as
he lumbers through
the woods

isn’t this always the way
loud
clumsy
bending nature either by
accident
or design

but never truly passing through
like sunlight
between leaves