Poet

Fiddler Crabs

The live ones
quick, pop out
               of sand holes of their own
               crazy-making.

They dig (and
when the sand
               is wet) roll sand balls
into piles, a semi-circle
               around their hole-door.

In the same way

it’s a ghostly thing, really,
               the way they blow
end over end, lightweight
               and dead.

something about the sea


beneath your feet

the sand shifts, footprints

mark your passage

you could be followed


no one ever does


something about the sea

the gray blue range

the white noise of waves

dampens edges


(whatever they are)


make us throw rocks

launched side-armed

skipping three or

four times, if lucky


it's a mercy, of sorts.

Promise Me


You will sit on the grass

And watch the cemetery men

Come down the hillside.


You won't be bothered

If they bump my box, you will stay

Be last instead of them.


You will believe what you always have

In peace and the procession of seasons

To ease the pain (what else can be said, really).


You will sit on the grass

if you aren't already beside me

(like this morning)

Legs intertwined into mine.

Spiral


It's what I wish the heart was.

A Guggenheim.


Frank Lloyd Wright and the Hawaiian fern

curl to a logarithmic swirl.


To keep its prey in continual sight

the falcon circles its flight


like I stare into shells. Even

snails know the ratio


that relates a Kansas twister

to the mountain goat's helix of a horn.


Gravity pulls us in/orbits/spins.

We all know there is calm in the eye.


Instead we beat. Pulsate.

We're electrical.


It is what I wish the heart was.

Not a muscle.