The Sea.

The rocks jut from the stormy sea like eyes
that look back at me. The flowers are wilted,
like green hands growing; a man bends over a fishing
pail, and drops in a roll of quarters. The sea is lonely.
It is wide and lonely. My mother makes me sandwiches
and puts them on the table in the kitchen. Flowers
sit in the vase. The words are not spoken, they wither
like sorrowed dreams and broken things that glow,
shattered and old.

The rocks jut from the stormy sea and the sun flashes
off of them. The boat rocks in the harbor and no one
has ever gone in to shore out of darkness,
darkness that rises from shards of glass. The woman on
the beach wears tattered, old clothes she got from
Goodwill, in Ohio; Ohio was where her baby was born,

who was taken so cruelly from her. She has long
fingers; the fingers are covered in sores. She has been homeless
for a long time,
and still, the rocks jut from the sea. The sea has drowned her.

How To Follow Paths.

I followed you down the path.
It was gentle and kind.
The loving was not simple;
there was no peace, only hatred.
I do not generalize. I put my hatred
in a tiny box and send it out to sea.
I gather my fruit, put it in a
basket, and sail it out to sea. It hopes to find land.
My neighbor is a woman named Lonnie.
She hardly leaves her house.

She cannot hear me from where I stand,
and call out at her-ask her if she wants
any banana bread. She always says no.
I do not think she likes bread of any
kind, her blinds are always shut, her door
is always locked, she never takes the time
to stop and smell the roses
that line her sidewalk. She drives a gray
mini van.
It is parked in the driveway.
She has not come out of her house
today. My television is on in the den,
it is time to make breakfast.
The sun just came up into the sky.
A new day enters me.