Santa Monica
Back home
I dream of the water
beyond the break
and wake older
angry at borders
that keep me foreign
and dry.
Did my wretched ancestors
who walked inward
abandoning shorelines
and settling centered
fear the power
tides gift me?
And will my absence
pull from both coasts
to my landlocked city
salt water so deep
as to drown
their evil
guiding star?
— July, 2017, Toronto
Your Call Pulses Through Me With A Glorious Dynamism
I've felt this wave before,
in Havana and Piles, too.
You were with me, then,
and the water senses your absence.
I lay back and conspire with the tide.
The sunlit Santa Monica sky turns black and star-pricked.
I drift, whispering your name,
until I feel your faint but unmistakable touch.
— December, 2017, Santa Monica
