In Fog We Keen

In fog we keen to passing flax sails
stretched across the shoulders of a gale,
though wheeling tern and gull cry
with our same sea-washed throats,
reason slit insensate as coral slices sodden skin.

We only know the shallow world by spasmed reach,
where turtles are swift beasts,
where slicked green feeds the spark of trevally,
and granite crevice clamps on ballast sunk
unclaimed by half-beings, we hoarders of need.

Were your seafarers cast aside?
Perhaps we wanted those untended fires in the wind;
wanted more the roaring angels of wind,
who arrive by spar and cloth; or further,
the purpose of those angels, destination.

Variation on a Theme

                               - after W. S. Merwin

Thank you for the spare hair
holding the sword and the hard
hat reminder held crown height
for the corners of cinder block
or gypsum board from where
I have walked hiccupping grace
for the lawn cut away from the stone path
that creeps into the copse détente
of cherry and fir and the rotted poplar
feeding the irrepressible beasts
thank you for the festooning
laundry that starts in gift boxes goes
to rumpled poses and carries my daily crumbs
the invisible burbling code of bone
marrow become fluid blood
guiding my hands to tea
for the tea as heater tea as healer
the lingual turn from loud cantina crowd
to crow blatant on the road