Arts + Scene » Poetry




Who can find that other place-
clouds torn into a blue field,
sun burning dew from orange petals,
the invisible life cleaning
delicate bone, hollow shaft
of feather, knot of hair? When someone
you love dies, for so long
you want to follow. Every month,
more than a year now, I've walked barefoot
on a flat, open beach, cold Pacific
pushing in, shallow rush of creek water
falling down, joining. Sometimes I count
dead birds, spread their mangled wings
into a still flight in sand. No, not yet.
A raven can live on air, and I can see
where this is all going. No,
not yet. Here. When I look back,
my footprints, crooked, weave the sea foam,
some places you might think
I walked into the tide
and it kept me.

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