Tuesday, September 1, 2009


Boy walks the beach,
Head lifting, lowering.
He looks sideways, back-

Man's eyes follow,
seeing young pass close,
sniffing deep what exudes.

Two gulls circle,
One swoops, one ascends
then flies on, on. . .

Pale skin, damp-
boy's ribs expanding
Purple nipples, cold.

Gaze fixed on feet
Jeans knees patched,
bare toes pink on black sand.

Though eyes do follow,
none draws close -
Not more than the head turn.

Not today.

Walking Song

So you’re the man who made long journeys
And fell flat by the roadside.

You got up, brushed dust from your jeans,
Expecting help one day, feeling helpless the next.

Can I tell you something you know?
This planet is curved.

All the roads on it follow that curve.
Even circuitous denials come back to where they began.

Not one man or one woman walks
On a path that doesn’t follow this rule.

I hear you humming a song, singing a few words
Stopping, looking down, then ahead, walking.

Bitten by whatever bites
And walking in shoes that have worn soles.

Tomorrow and next week are abstracts
Serving to divide where you’ve been

From where you will someday go.

September 1, 2009