Ocean Walk

At last the sun has shed her morning shroud

to watch the ocean claim and yield the shore;

as earth’s orations ebb and flow, they churn

to rise.  Our soul attends their crash and flight.

With fingers interlaced, our hands begin

to swell; and still we walk.  Walk past the pier

and through the carefree dogs splashing, chasing

shaking the blessed ocean over dry sand.

Beyond the dogs, a bloated seal lies pocked

with white and marked; one long scar splits

him nose to tail; a racing stripe for diving

deep, for sporting waves.  Had he planned

to beach this long?  We squeeze hands and step

around the carcass; aiming towards a pier on our horizon;

we know it will take longer  than anticipated. We feel the soul

begin to drink; and you are glad to move.

Relax and bask in the glow of the hazy sun.

Leavings

I

One star fell.

The firmament loosed and

frangible.  

Such an omen,

such a void in

familiar constellations,

such a fissure

scored the sky; blazed and faded.

Then such darkness

against the pinprick in my mind  

where your effulgence remains. 

Then such darkness

and clinging to the phone

that brought the news,  as if

 you’d land on our telephone wires

and materialize in my hand.

II

Tracing figures in the sand,

pictures for my daughter.

Tracing words on a page,

 trying the train I may leave.

Do our leavings race forward like train rails or

follow like tracks in the desert?

III

I’d like to leave at least

a wake in water; filled to

overflowing.  Like our

dog comes running, ecstatic

from his bowl, drops

flinging off his jowls,

baptizing us in his affection.

Tabernacle

In this tabernacle
of familiar flesh, honored
if only temporary shanty,
the Pnuema prods; pushing
our skin to split and spill
its transience.  Our spirit groans
not to dissolve, not
to be left exposed, but for Life
to pour into the soul's mould,
swallowing mortality whole.

In this tabernacle,
by the torn veil,
death and incense dawdle.
The coupled curtains sag.
Listless sparkling cherubim
wonder; reminiscing fire
and cloud, law and shadow;
not for what's been left, but
watching forward, for the things
angels aspire to see.

In this tabernacle,
the sun like a bridegroom, like an Olympian
runs out laughing,
tirelessly chatting up the moon in
all his languages while the stars
sing loudly to themselves,
joy twinkling at a secret
spread to the ends of the earth.
Search me, find me, keep me
even in this tabernacle.

Desert Cultivation

Trumpet flowers tocan una cancion,
like small mariachis heralding the morning.
Purple trajes blaze against the tan
vista, trumpeting buried living water.

Delicate leaves and wisps of branches shiver,
like when abuela stripped the vinyl table
of its ancient lace and stood on the porch, heirloom
in both hands, shaking loose the dust.

Back in the willow bush a bee throbs,
wings his own dance, buzzes his grito
to the play of purple trumpets; marking the score
for his community, the scales and arpeggios of their honey.