I.         JUNE

My sunflower bag, this June day 

on Carmel beach I fill with pink 

stones and will go on making 

a mosaic of our wet and dry lives. 

How the yellow heaven prefers 

yellow: palo verde coats the desert 

golden and once the bees do 

their work, edible fruit beans.  

Nothing is hidden, nothing is 

prolonged. Green trunks do 

as green does: live, expand, die.
And we all want blackberry days.

Because our lives are mid-sting,

consider the sand dollars and

Monterrey glass angels psalming

our fondness into watering lists.

East of the greenhouse, clouds

cast shadows, beckon rain as

magnitude and sudden vanishing. 

We are growing reverent in situ.

How twilight fossil beds teach me 

to settle grief. A moment of vision: 

slates of purple moorland framed

by flattened leaf blades defying wind.

 

II.        COSMOS DREAMING

 

One day

          my own field

 

sunlight webwork

in the living

room

 

          broken silk spikes

knife through my chest

          I am graced

with a million holes

 

where these lives

vertiginous

         have reached through me

 

flower-chasers

in a time of strange rain

and spring amalgams

of greenness and heatwave

 

Ray and the wind

 

I tell him wild sugarcane

volunteers to rise of its own

                   free will,

 

as any good weed should.

 

The same relics of desire:

grain to the knees

 

I wonder if there will be

children, if we will

bring them here

one day

to know dead of

in windows

of summer

 

Some desires

can leave us barren

          unable to find

 

         a new way

to say the cosmos colors

we hope rise

from the ground

where small feet

glide seed.

 

III.        ABUNDANTIA

In these last days, departments

of every desire.

Glass angels leave their cenotaphs

and I lower my face to the water.

Sorrow: a good reason for our forgetting.

Guests without devotion

congregate

on the balcony

with sunbellies.

Acceptance: a sudden clearing

and splitting what belongs

to us.

Standing in front of the largest organ

in the world, what you will find

is the pipes speaking to you. 

How you 

define memory

is the butterfly effect.

A wetland sphered is my Ray,

I’ve come to be xeromorph.

 

A wetland sphered is my Ray, 

an opening, a fourth man of fire.

Remember the illuminationals:

berries on the afghan,

Nevada letters to a phantom sister,

grapefruit, binoculars at Fish Lake,

red merle resting in sawgrass. 

The life balm of a promise is

comfort in a word that may burn,

a chest of devotions, was it?

A wetland sphered is my Ray, 

foundations in abundance nebulaed