arctic telegram
cold feet under warm blankets
raindrop pings window

from tributaries
oceans receiving rivers
snow drift in sunlight

afternoon thermals
heavier than air on wing
the sky believing

sanderlings darting
exhausted wave collapses
on sleepless shoreline

the water’s language
a library of cloud forms
notes on sea napkins

words in light of other words
this buoyed upon that

(Everyone writes Haiku about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.)


in the North where
the beauty wears magnificent trees
and glacial rock sculptures
they still have to borrow sky
from Texas, Texas is nine parts sky
and blanketing above, that
cloud-boil, above the cities too
where the deer trails are paved
is not a place, not kept, not held, no vault
an Olympic tangle of mind and air
roads chalkline straight
tide pools French-curve shallow
horizon a dazzling shaft of lightsaber
and skylight so thick
you could build a house on it
and think about retiring


among the driftwood, bits of plastic
a length of rope, a desiccated flip-flop
a tiny plastic shovel, a bottle cap
an age of unbridled thing-mongering
leaves a death bed confession on
a beach strewn with the corpses of
the defectors who threatened to talk



A short film by Terrence Malick of
two figures on a beach, walking.
No, it's just a photo I took one afternoon,
but I like to envision my life sometimes
as if it were filmed by Malick,
narrated by William S. Burroughs,
and written by someone who knows
how to live a damn life.