salt

a strip of sky
ignores the words
that bleed themselves into stone.

and a single trail of white,
like a too far contrail,
like a salt-softened throat
pauses inbetween

~

Off to Victoria for four days. Ferry rust and piles of ropes and sails and salt-soft wood abound!
an oceany kiss*

mast

splaying against
the mid-june blue,
summer fingers
stretch themselves into sky,
wishing for
the thwack and catch
of wind into white.

~

Have you seen the Red Violin? oh. oh. so stunning...

Nest

a bare cage
mostly bone
black stains
biting out
of april's
blue blue sighs

highway wandering

Shadows of clouds
crowd the highway,
and wings tangle and untangle themselves
above the forever telephone wires.

The highway is the tired grey of old dish cloths
brightened only by redwing black birds
who puff their sleeves, brace themselves red
and watch us pass.

Next to the road,
fields blur green,
and sometimes open themselves into long dark hallways,
that close again just as quickly.

~

A quote I read yesterday, next to the ocean:

I wish you would take my hair into your mouth,
enough for a nest.

~ from Esta Spalding's, "The Wife's Account":

trees and telephone poles

Static replaces CBC
and wings skid across the windshield,
as the highway takes us past Nobel,
flanked by walls of rocks opened north
by men who breathed stones into their lungs.

These walls are painted now
with post-prom spray paint:
LEE
Carl 2001
Emmaly 2006
GK + TR
I love you Jenna
letters still drunk on stolen rum and Mom’s diet Coke.

~

In response to your yesterday post...

Above slightly burnt shoulders
that are buried now
in dug up sweaters,
eyes narrow west
sunglass-less and squinting.

For our thoughts...

our eyes focus on the colour of sun
dimmed for safety
splayed in bright directions
then falling south