There’s a galaxy of
stars that cling to rocks,
crawling over things
to drag you down
to the ocean’s floor.

The ocean is six miles deep
(and that’s only what we can see)
between what’s said
and what’s left.

When sand burns
into looking glass
beneath the glare
of your brights,
the floor’s
not solid and

you’ll slow-sink
in quick-sand,
the coming unknown
swallowing you
dry like a pill
so it burns on
the way down.

I think that
the stars would
reach out
to you,
that it
come too
late and
sand would
have filled
your eyes

We learned
at a
in a
you were
to jump


January I broke a window,
when I ducked for cover
from hail the size of mice.
The stars laughed at me.

February saw me
sit at the lakeshore
waiting for the
groundhog’s shadow.

April marched over,
shattered the
mirror I fell through.
Maybe that’s that.

I can’t fathom six
miles in any direction.
But you taught me
how to fake it.

The stars are lead
by the swimming
tiger, denizen of
those lazy rivers
of time-turning sand.

Boundlessly they flow,
followed by fools of
gold teeth, muddy
boots from orchards
of dank crab-apples
who rest their claws
in broken dives.

From the Audubon
into the junction
at the world’s edge
where andforbutso
neither, yet met( on a bridge)

Only once did we
pause to count
how long is a while.

The ocean is six miles deep
but that’s only what we can see.


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