As the Sky Changes Shape
A question: how do we stay warm?
The same way the ocean makes monsters
out of us. Two big salt-wet dogs sniff a puppy
that looks like a human baby or a tiny bear.
A spill of gulls chases children down the horizon
where I watch from a low-branched tree,
its gnarled legs blooming into mine.
Some of the dogs are going gray
and I remember apologizing over and over
for the countries in my skin. Whose is this?
I don’t want it. A kind of inexhaustibility,
the way they so blindly diffuse. Friends I loved
are buying houses and I can’t talk the way
they talk to small things. That open coo forces
me to look for shade. To howl at blame. I wish
they would stay like me: fighting the line
between nourish and choke.
This weathered kingdom has its rules. Strangers
turn and face the sea. Birds hang low in the air.
I feel something wet; I touch my forehead
and my thumbs come back bright and clear.
On the ground, a pelican chews its wing.
All these trees are close enough to break.
