Calais, 1987
above the beach
magic carpet new blue
new as any Oldsmobile
once was so new
sapphire elevates
and we spread the sky
ride over our crystal ball
of water sparkling
while baby blue
boxing gloves now dangle
from mirror rearview
inside as future toys
while past is so soon rust
of the sands at our feet
as our hearts rush to rush
to stand forever still
and true blue is parked
aside and bleeds antifreeze
as metallic skin mirrors
our passing space
in the tread between
our toes now long ago
we have grown so old
so soon and yet again new
long after that parked car
aftershave and perfume
drifts farther away
ice cold blue like a splash
and we are sure as angels
with wings touching
and we see the seabirds
as the ancients had
Same Old Glass Sliding Doors
So soon alone at supper table.
Yet, not truly alone.
With the just bought canned tuna fish,
you are the old can and the smelly sea.
And then suddenly, out on the deck,
some seabird up from the grass starboard
is speaking now of faraway family.
You listen with your ear at the porthole
as she sadly shares stories of nests.
And you recognize yourself out there.
Maybe now you realize,
hell is a bunch of small fishbowls.
Inside each glass, a fish of gold,
but a fish slow to be vulnerable,
slow to allow the universe within.
Even though the seabird stays
outside upon planks, you are both here.
In the mist of yourself, not alone.
And you finally give in.
You slide the scene to toss toast,
bread, with a bit of fish somehow fresh,
even if old as Gilgamesh.
What goes ancient need not be stale.
Universe stirs within you.
And you feel yourself able to fly.
As if all fish, wet and dry, have wings.
She takes it, and lifts you away.