Drape the hole in the beach with apricot silk | there is more left | this is what we have now

A blind pilot has left lines in the sand, so many | There are other things, she says | why can’t you | acknowledge that?

The lines remind us of the | paths of atoms, of particles | of atoms, of particles of | particles of atoms | Keep breaking me, she says | I will not be | here in the morning

There are many holes in the beach, craters | this is the only | hole we have draped | Naturally | our eyes are drawn to it | here in the morning | with a cry of gulls | the sea’s | heartbeat of surf | booming, sound of the world | breathing

This is our portion now | the beach is empty | the wrecks of | ships in my throat | the ornate | memos of the bones | The sea is not | a hammer, she says | You are not | an anvil | There are no swords, why must you | think in swords?

Steered into ruin, or into backwaters | the provinces where exiles | write their poems, walk the shore | tied even now | among the runnels | of boat-tracks | through the sand | to the eyes of rulers

Tsunami | takes up the structures | breaks them | puts them down again | in a new order | There is more left | There are other things

Open a beer | pad | bare-foot through the condo | Trace the | shapes of dreams | put back | facts on the shelves | right the ornaments | There are no things, she says | None at all | There is nothing left | Why can’t you | celebrate that?

Guided | through the dark | to a different | style of darkness | Lacing my fears | once more into place | Watching her move | around the apartment | Asking my heart | to come back and be | at the right moment | at other moments | to recede, be idle | Why are you afraid? | she asks | I will be here

I pick up my swords | walk out | As I go blind | and the sun | fades away time, I wonder | after a while | as I keep moving | Is it morning now?