there, off the edge, between the black swell of the flattened peaks and dips, radio tower antenna pushing up as wild grass, now looking back toward the city. my wife is asleep now in the other room. i can hear her rhythmic breathing. maybe dreaming. yes, our eyes flash light with each new pass but here, the brine smell sits heavy in the air. i can still taste the salt white foam washing over muddy oyster beds and stone. i can still taste the mud.
*
here, in snowmelt, i’ve wet my swelling hands. the joints along my fingers flushed. last night i couldn’t hear the bells ringing anymore. i couldn’t hear the highway jam. i couldn’t hear my downstairs neighbor or her cat. no rusting itch of worn-metal worked, no memory of dent corn or soy, no pistol cocked or flooded basement. not even my own mother/warrior with mattress shield against bits of broken glass. my hands are underwater and when i look at them: pale. i want a full reversal. total upheaval-
*
at my feet there are many dark gray stones, bits of broken shells and a waterlogged, hollow appendage of some miserable crab picked clean of itself. the dark greens of the pine cut jagged into the heavy gray sky. we are both here in this space, this rough line, this holy arm. my wife’s dream – we are standing in a narrow bookstore packed with people we know but we are searching for this guy whose name i forgot. we just stand there , arms stretched like a great fishing net – eyes closed because we’re really asleep.
