Walking backward from the sea, scales shedding, you seek the cave. This is why the French door admits only ocean. You stare into the louver and forget how to get out. Lull is the word, or loll. The sea returns, completing your pulse, the waves live, each breath of yours worship.
Body Mostly Flown
A De Chirico head aslant on a coverlet,
body mostly flown, the dazed prayers dumb.
The ritual cigarette, the ritual drink:
incense, holy water. No ambivalence,
the woman inside fled, the whispers
I make of tenderness—hers—she sleeps through.
She's in that corridor, tunnel, the light is left on—
shut if off. But the nurse has to see the thermometer.
No ambivalence. No valence either, no speech.
My own heart stops, skids. No lingering regret or all,
sealed with stubbornness,
forgiveness a ness from a life
more fairytale, the hard breathing still, still.
A wing flaps and fear scurries out,
a mouse with a crumb it meant to eat earlier.
De Chirico empties the patio.