a known ocean breathing from a dried shell to live in at four a.m. when you and the dream and the cabernet put on winter boots and start digging —
the wet sand not frozen of course but cold enough to give you a headache just from touching it — you are looking for a small cask unknown shape
tin-lined warped from a hundred-fifty winters at least — the small voice from the shell the quieter louder one from the waves these two they told you
they told you they had something for you something waiting for you and the wine made you believe it or rather to be more honest the wine
made you admit out loud to believing what you always have believed and here you are then breathing cold as cold as water
in the heart of the heartest winter and breathing from a dried shell speaking whispering singing to you
in its coldest believingest voice ever waiting for your nails to scrape against
a honeybee nectaring in a flower and forsythia bloomed in december this year and
don’t know what this will mean for them in spring the blooms I mean but rats that have eaten all our trash will have to find
a new trash to eat now won’t they of this I feel fairly certain — inside the house there is yelling from the living room yelling from the kitchen there is yelling
from the dining room too perhaps the house is on fire but I will not stir — I will cozy here in this chair in the dark
like the bee in his unbloomed yellow petals with nowhere to take the pollen I will
not worry so much about the crackling or the heat this chair is made of
flame-resistant fabric anyway this hair is made of flame-resistant me too I am flame I am resistant
Why do I love a stone house   the roof blown off seagulls nesting in the fireplace?
We can be in the house and still see the sky.
Today the sky is flat and so is the sea but memory ripples like tin —
it’s not that I want to be stone or the chisel that cut it or the prisoner’s chain whose rough noise became a friend:
so, after struggle comes beauty, if you believe in that sort of thing.
My mother, fearing the reverse said secret thanksgivings when her children were born with mouths too wide and eyes a little too small.
An old crane, blue and orange with rust —   A new egg, green and brown, speckled —
Let’s lie and leave the sad parts out.