Poetry

We knew about the ocean:
  sharks and moods and pearls.
     Flood waters in Brigantine.

August, goldenrod blowing. We walk
into the graveyard, to find
my grandfather’s grave. Ten years ago

Typing paper and white-out bought, sacked,
and clutched to my breast as if with purpose,
I find myself still shopping: is it the wish to be,
or the feeling of being already no one at all
that lures me through the aisles and aisles of racks
of...

This silver light could dissolve everything
into one substance. Already the borders
of sand and ocean and air are unclear,

I wonder what Spanish poets would say about this,
Bloodless, mid-August meridian,
Afternoon like a sucked-out, transparent insect shell,
Diffused, and tough to the touch.
Something about a labial, probably,
        something about the blue.