Prose poems in progress:
Your two unmarked bottles: one sugar, one salt. Discern each by studying the shape of the crystals and how they rest. At the lake I write on blank pages of snow, on my knees, my finger digging deep in the drifts, a north to south message for the birds, “when we were teenagers we wanted to be the sky.” Leaving, I’d bottle these epiphanies for a summer day, the flight patterns of lonely birds in the sky, words made of snow, the curve of ice, the perfume of chaff, the space of a country cupboard, closed.
you leave nests everywhere
tip top tress in the marsh grass your soul an estuary
sight me on your horizon branded by the sun
freckles the shape of birds
watching strangers wrinkle from my perch
the marina looks like a graveyard
boats white as bones, drifting aimless
bobbing to god’s heartbeat, an omniscient pulse,
which is timed to the crash of waves.