Poems are those odd things that keep us afloat;
wattles on water, three bulls on a boat.
Hither we sail, Here-A-Little and There.
A gift: the pond offers us to the moon
as a congregation of crickets croon
a requiem for an unfulfilled affair.
It redeems my cup, when it is empty,
to fill it with the sunshine and the sea;
to sip a soup of stars and salt and sand.
If you find me lounging on forever
moments, strip down, join me in the water.
It's warmer and safer here than on land.
I can build stairs to the moon if you ask.
All I need is a notebook and a mask.