Shine, brine, waterline.
Tenderness. Gentleness. Loch Ness.
Dive, sunlight.
Make no splash,
shards of light like dimes spilled
on a sidewalk.
The sea’s not a painting,
and drowning’s no game.  

Poem, ark where two by two everyone’s parents enter,
then separate like waves,
dads in the bow, moms in the stern,
divided by sex like kids on a school bus,
get better soon.  

Little seasick poem, un-nation yourself.
Bring words like spices across the sea,
wind in the purpled air,
bridge improvised out of birdsong and the rhythm of waves.
How else do we return to one another
but by listening to what the sea has to say?  

If I’d titled this “Self Portrait as Sea”
rain wouldn’t pose such a problem.
As if titles are the problem.
As if Ars Poetica with Bacon.
As if Dr.
As if Ars Poetica (cocoons).
As if Assistant to the…  

The sky a lecture that never ends.
The sea a boneyard of murky, buried memories.
Flash, yearn, don’t crash, turn.
How else do we survive our own desires and drives
but by floating on words that travel far to rescue us?