this is the old town by the sea
an old tanker submerged, posing in the salty water
turtles no longer come to the shore to give birth
and I will sing a prayer to the sea
O sea, all naiads at your tired feet.
Sisal farms assure me I’m far from home
the vehicle shoots up from its launching pad
I am all that black air of un-being, layers of pressure,
old magazines under the coffee table,
from the bridge I can view this rehearsal, Mama Ngina drive
the land is resisting the sea, who wants the vast return of leave?
Soon Mtwappa will come up as the estuary of floating lights
and I will give in
to downward
flight.

how the letters of my name scatter searching for cousins
on the flat landscape,
that the moon can be seen through the window
on a highway
how some things must be said although they will not be said
years back and now have no clear separating line although
now I surpress some things
leaving beds unattended

here I mean that life has left us
no longer warming its hands on the phlox of my eyes
how I scatter to avoid a demise,
is that the string quartet from those days when the leaves
were torn right from your eyes?
O plastic fumes, the monoliths of days
When boundaries were a simple thing now
confine us in perfect space.

Blue Music Dream

Not Quite Self Potrait

Image

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