Clawed bark bitten by wolves, or coyotes,
depending on where evaporated spirit houses lie,

Everything is ritual, sacrament of time:
listless ramblings under a blood sun

too close to the horizon-line, folklore
isn’t fashioned by mouths, only sod. Eyes

were made to fool us all—refractions,
upside-down lies to make the sun appear

large and close enough to swallow the world,
but won’t. It keeps fresh youth hiding, beach fossils

the same as any of us blanketed by sun rays–
dried out, waiting to turn to sun-bleached coquina…


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s