into the all

when i tell you we can live on music and bread,

i mean i want to sit with you on the floor of a room. 

when i tell you we can live on music and bread,

i mean we feel. the poetry, the sound, and

those rhythms.

when i tell you we can read the rhythms to each other
over and around

i mean we will touch divine from the act of it,

from our spines pressed together back to back, and

in those half notes and broken chords we will

enter the all.

and when i tell you this is gratitude,
to those tiny children who, with fingers of rubies, made this music,

who picked through mud into opal dirt, who spun tears into wheat
gold for us and who kneaded this bread before sun came and

combined violins and axes, and who

made instruments into sustenance,

i mean we can live on music and bread.

not at him but with him

 
In Mexico

That dog in his ruffled skirt made me laugh, but

Despite that, he looked tough, with angry eyes screaming

And in his December green sweater, stealing meat

From the vendor, that dog made me laugh

Not at him, but with him

And the murals on the walls reminded me of love and dead babies

And the many ways the living will 
compensate for loss.

futile

at ninety, at old age

she was bitter about sanka without cream

and resented fingerprints on picture glass.

she bathed the cat daily
and it ran away

until still, lilies clotted the lake

epic story of alone

alki beach, stones

and sandy toes,

twist bird in the wind.

there is no one to call when the gas tank is dry.

there is no one to call when the tide moves in
and little gulls thieve from us because

nothing is free

inside a driftwood cage

and the bonfire threatens to burn down the sea.
there is no one to call when there is no water.
standing on the shore and there is no water
and the sandpipers scatter. and

orthotic shoes sit by the towel and

pictures capture the shadows and

nothing is free