Brazos de Rocas

No flat-footed gait here

For misshapen stones have congregated

Or been placed, and feathered

And weathered away into tables and craters and continents

Step, step, steps remind me

I only see what’s before my feet

thank god for that

These misshapen stones

That furious windstorms have thrown here

That the ocean lays bare its bones here

thank god for that

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I haven’t asked him for his number because now I am known, now the I-I-I am afraid, now I am up there on the raggedy cross with Christ: no longer unimaginable (so a little breathless), no number, no d

a better question

In the end, I suppose the better question is: how does the ocean feel about us?


I emerged from my door and carried into my present moment the quivering skeleton of a whom this poem is for, a what is trying to be accomplished. We are the escape artists. We point the way out. We pa

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