In commemoration of the last time Rae and I were at this delightful spot, a writers conference in Edmunds, Washington. This was the poem I spent all day writing on a park bench by the ocean.
At this drunken shoreline, patterns return, in
quilted quiet. I can revel again in spiced hours,
deaf to the biker-ghosts, bad-mouthing
this demure, paper posture.
Thoughts are a little rumpled, like the sea,
what with these ferocious memories; un-manacled,
like cottonwood dreams, blown out into the world.
This world I am watching.
* * * * *
She walks down the street, locking
every wandering glance; stolen stares from
other hungers. Sad limbs, built for laughing strolls,
carry instead their weight in
desperation, the roll call gestures of
fragmentary magnetism. To look down is to invalidate,
the one thing that renders such creatures immobilized.
She never looks straight on. Being seen but
unknown has honed a peripheral awareness
to a hawk-like precision. It’s the hollow
look of the lonely.
* * * * *
That’s a tiny dog for such an imposing guy.
It must have something to do with an ill-
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