I know that I am forlorn and lost and there is no going back
when I have begun already falling in love with people I don’t even know
and my heart drifts out beyond even my reach and Sudddenly the Sea becomes
the closest coast to my metaphorical mass and I begin writing love notes
shaped like boats and send them out into the raging storm.
They are built to sink, made of heavy words and dreams.
They are holdfasts to my hearts past and an inexcusable future.
They are artificial reefs of exhausted songs
and played out tires burning endlessly under water.


When I lie down, collapsing into bed,

rolling over onto my back, and close

my eyes before bringing both hands

up to my face and impel them to run

fingers through my hair: weathered

and telling fingers, tired and restless

hair, in the interrupted closingness of

shuttered eye’s lids and winged brush

of perhaps unjaded lashes let loose, I

will stop the desedimentation of my self

and start to build something I too can enjoy.