Post by LynnDoiron on May 9, 2008 14:45:34 GMT -5
~ San Felipe, 1989
On the Sea of Cortez, the moon wrinkles
bronze highlights, glosses wide slips
with milk flats and ribbons, that
dreamed (in years fuzzy with dawns,
midnights, dusks) go quiet: no slide
of foam tides lapping in, tonguing out;
no coyotes crying where Baja mesquite grows
through cars without windows or answers
or doors.
Footfalls do not crunch sand on the night
I dressed in a shirt of white soft as bandages
and long as a wound. Silence so vast
in the beaches of sleep where we step
and halos surround our running feet
where we fall and the lips of ribbons and milk
sooth our thighs while a stranger’s smooth tides,
without a word, writes:
You are alive, you are alive.
Umber is everywhere in gradations moving
the loco moon to ripple dunes and stipple
Cortez’s Sea with spray where a star
extends one leg into the shallow horizon.
My small bean of life cracks; the stem
of something forgotten finds night and snaps,
tender with chaos and
aware. I remember his name, Michael;
he fought fires in San Diego and was
engaged. We made angels in October’s
sand under a moon too crazy with tequila
to care about the cupped hands of a star
holding us above what was coming
and already passed.
Stripped cars house their lizards, give
skeletal shade once the moon's
spilt too thin for day to spell it, and colors
squeeze over even the dispossessed.
~
[original post]
On the Sea of Cortez, the moon makes
wrinkles in the flat bronze, glosses wide
slips with milk flats and ribbons, that
dreamed (half awake in years fuzzy
with dawns, midnights, dusks) go
quiet: no slide of foam tides lapping in,
tonguing out; no coyotes crying above
dunes where Baja mesquite grows
through cars without windows or answers
or doors. Footfalls do not crunch sand
on the night. I dressed in a shirt of white
soft as bandages and long as a wound.
Silence so vast in the beaches of sleep
where we step and halos surround
our running feet, where we fall and the lips
of ribbons and milk sooth our thighs while
a stranger’s smooth tides, without a word,
writes: You are alive, you are alive.
Umber is everywhere in gradations moving
the loco moon to ripple dunes and stipple
Cortez’s Sea with spray where a star
extends one leg into the shallow horizon.
My small bean of life cracks, the stem
of something forgotten finds the night
and snaps, tender with chaos and aware.
I remember his name, Michael;
he fought fires in San Diego and was
engaged. We made angels in October’s
sand under a moon too crazy with tequila
to care about the cupped hands of a star
holding us above what was coming
and already passed. Stripped cars house
their lizards, give skeletal shade once the moon's
spilt too thin for day to spell it, and colors
squeeze over even the dispossessed.
On the Sea of Cortez, the moon wrinkles
bronze highlights, glosses wide slips
with milk flats and ribbons, that
dreamed (in years fuzzy with dawns,
midnights, dusks) go quiet: no slide
of foam tides lapping in, tonguing out;
no coyotes crying where Baja mesquite grows
through cars without windows or answers
or doors.
Footfalls do not crunch sand on the night
I dressed in a shirt of white soft as bandages
and long as a wound. Silence so vast
in the beaches of sleep where we step
and halos surround our running feet
where we fall and the lips of ribbons and milk
sooth our thighs while a stranger’s smooth tides,
without a word, writes:
You are alive, you are alive.
Umber is everywhere in gradations moving
the loco moon to ripple dunes and stipple
Cortez’s Sea with spray where a star
extends one leg into the shallow horizon.
My small bean of life cracks; the stem
of something forgotten finds night and snaps,
tender with chaos and
aware. I remember his name, Michael;
he fought fires in San Diego and was
engaged. We made angels in October’s
sand under a moon too crazy with tequila
to care about the cupped hands of a star
holding us above what was coming
and already passed.
Stripped cars house their lizards, give
skeletal shade once the moon's
spilt too thin for day to spell it, and colors
squeeze over even the dispossessed.
~
[original post]
On the Sea of Cortez, the moon makes
wrinkles in the flat bronze, glosses wide
slips with milk flats and ribbons, that
dreamed (half awake in years fuzzy
with dawns, midnights, dusks) go
quiet: no slide of foam tides lapping in,
tonguing out; no coyotes crying above
dunes where Baja mesquite grows
through cars without windows or answers
or doors. Footfalls do not crunch sand
on the night. I dressed in a shirt of white
soft as bandages and long as a wound.
Silence so vast in the beaches of sleep
where we step and halos surround
our running feet, where we fall and the lips
of ribbons and milk sooth our thighs while
a stranger’s smooth tides, without a word,
writes: You are alive, you are alive.
Umber is everywhere in gradations moving
the loco moon to ripple dunes and stipple
Cortez’s Sea with spray where a star
extends one leg into the shallow horizon.
My small bean of life cracks, the stem
of something forgotten finds the night
and snaps, tender with chaos and aware.
I remember his name, Michael;
he fought fires in San Diego and was
engaged. We made angels in October’s
sand under a moon too crazy with tequila
to care about the cupped hands of a star
holding us above what was coming
and already passed. Stripped cars house
their lizards, give skeletal shade once the moon's
spilt too thin for day to spell it, and colors
squeeze over even the dispossessed.
