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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for nicolle

We listened and we heard in the space between us, a small garden with many new things: curving meridians and underworlds and iridescent dreams, shoulders to chest like a liturgy. One is when we are to


There are moments I remember that even the schools of crickets are multitudinous, and that waiting for the rain makes the sun too bright. I discover new shapes every day: green ones, gold ones, secret


Conversations with Jesus on the front porch. So many worries. That's true, he says. Everything moving by things I can't see. But perhaps, he says, you can. And under it all? You'll remember, he says.