The Riptide

the danger is in the struggle,
they say
to fight the sharp edge of the water
cutting across
and always down
"lean in
lean in," she whispers, "and
slip, weightless beneath the dark waters"
You will turn and churn
and churn in a froth of salt and
the cloud of crimson rising
from wounds you could not find before
hoping
having seen the sun-bleached bodies
litter the shore
staring blankly,
the soft flesh of the eye
fallen prey to crabs
and wild dogs

Tired

A friend told me, not long ago, that he was tired. That he was ready for it to make sense, for joy to sidle up or slide away without his sideways glance.

And I am tired. I find myself unable to listen, the dark stalagmites occluding vision eventually kiss the floor.

Iron Creeps Beneath My Skin

I find iron creeps beneath my skin; the subtle pallor of winter wins against whatever limping spring I escaped. I've salted the ground beneath me, sown brittleness made from the lingering hopes kept too close.

I set the compass down; the magnetic center of the earth sure to lead me home. Instead, it spins and spins and spins and what walking and waiting I've done seems to have lead again into the dark wilding wood. And I move from a dark county into a dark country.

I lean

Watching the darkling horizon
straining for the spark
I lean into wind
grasp the crumbling walls
blood and ozone heavy on the tongue