i collect words and smith ’em.

they blow on in like a breeze. 

they’re new minted thoughts

when i’m in water to my knees.

i’ve a jeweled box of topaz,

with dead flowers from

the mesa and the marsh.

there’s passerbys and brothers,

by the bay in gilead.

words pour out today,

every passing wave the melody. 

then i take it so far out to sea,

sailing where i’ll fish alone—

my pants are soaked up to my bones.

then i want the wet to dry from me—

so unsteady dying in this land.

see i met a woman, anesthesia—

she matched a wind blast to my fire, and

up my clothes dried as dead leaves, or

canvas sails stretched on glowing wire.

she was born in a fortunate place,

with friends to embrace—

sweet, count yourself kept by love.

bosom friend, pose me the case

how to best give you chase—

to wrap you in me, dove.

i’m open to vast stretching space,

but your warm’st embrace,

to me is not known of.

i came back home, at evening.

went back to rest my skull.

in a barrio named for san antone

by the bay i know too well.

she needs nothing that i can see—

not now or any day.

i wonder, am i a pest, or does she

see the heart of me.

she needs nothing that i can see—

not now or any day.

oh she’s got her ways,

she’s got a way—

i’m just a lost pescadero in the sand

with someone he can’t have.

now ask me where the water is…

…in gilead.