Monday, January 28, 2008
Brown study
Dark ocean eve.
The waves along the horizon
Are not even waves because they’re too far away.
That sound is the sound of wind rising,
Asserting itself like a dirty cop.
No second thoughts and no guilt.
I could have been so beautiful.
Crabs are finding their nacred shells,
Skimmers are taking their winnings off the top.
The pier is still broken from last time.
I’m busy naming the next hurricane after myself.
When will I come to land? — who knows.
Guidebooks, clouds, soaring hotels, and sand.
In the waterfront bar, my image on satellite TV
Spins and spins. I can’t make up my mind.
