Quiet olfactory of winter, snow
or no snow. Mount Spokane.
Where the glaciers have stopped. Where they still shift
without notice. A preference not to know.
A steamer and its thick trail of smoke
disappearing into the isthmus. Hibiscus
in violet and red. Melancholy. Morning, long shadows
of mountains over the beach. A dog in the window,
sensing the hills pulsing before a storm.
Redwoods, even Pines. Traveling south
along the coast, south until
we recognize nothing. Cow heart on the menu.
One mosquito net for both of us
to sleep beneath. Sex. Flash
of equinox moon on the water, paper boats
sailing through pond grass, you said
it reminded you of soft music,
the thrush, then silence. Constellations
like distant cityscape. The wilderness of lust.
Desert plains sprinkled with blue
wildflowers. Swarming horseflies sticking
to droplets of half-evaporated sweat.
Lightning snaps over a barren field, someone
is there, looking straight up. The unspeakable things,
whether or not it was love, skeptical
of nostalgia. Hard like bleach. Kerosene,
flames. Bright orange dusk across the coast, hidden
rocky cove, one dead seal sparkling in sea foam.
To see the white moon rise
and fall. Forgiveness. And there is hugeness, too,
and distance is a factor. And what is not real.
Cliffs, bones hanging from a Joshua tree.
Seismic energy, San Andreas Fault,
faults in general. And blame.
A bedroom, scissors on the dresser,
shiny blades reflecting worried eyes,
body parts stretching and collapsing on
themselves. Silence after a blizzard,
dress hanging on the doorknob
the morning after.
Third Coast | Spring 2012