we move through

6something a.m. in the darkness
and things i would normally laugh at
in decent hours most likely won’t become funny
until at least 8am

the constant, though imagined – but i swear i can hear them
sing chorus sound of the spring peepers
in the background
of everything
most of the day
this part of the coast
comes with
laughing on an early morning amtrak bus
headed south about butt cakes and muck boots
and how if we switched the phrases it’d be
muck cakes and butt boots and how these would work
as knuckle tattoos as well:
muck cake
butt boot
and then laughing again about kindergarten-teachering
randy who refuses to be nice
(would you want to be treated that way, randy?)
all while the low-lying cloudgray dew damp fog sings
as lichen, as moss, as coniferous needles
filling the coastal, then inland valleys we move through

sitting across andrew and christie at the dinner table
which just happens to be hurtling through time/space
on a south bound train,
jennifer at my side, when andrew says something
about working for amazon i ask
ok, so, do you have a mini basketball court and
bean bags and m&ms and fun/cool stuff
in your office
the snow, the trees, the train moving through it

and our view of it all from the sleeper car
(where everything is mini)
and the tears in my eyes and me saying
i love this place
and later: not as in ‘here’ but as in
this planet, this universe



and we walk towards

am i inscribing my whiteness all over it i ask
about the peninsula bus system whose stops are vague
and whose maps are even more vague
but whose friendly person on the other end of the line
has the answers to my questions but still
i want to  know why isn’t it all
just printed clearly and cleanly somewhere

the bench/bleachers that we work at outside
in the glorious coastal light/sun while the laundry spins inside
first, in cold water and then in hot dry heat
colors tumbling a blur into one  another
the plain yogurt with berry jam mixed in whose remnants
i clear out with my fingers

jenafr and i hopscotching tree roots
that insist on buckling the paved path under our feet
hi tree, hi tree, hi tree we sing/say
with the movement/play of our bodies

there are two suns i say about the one lowering itself into
cloud/horizon haze and about the one shining
back at us off the sheen on the sand
and we
walk towards

a few steps in

sunlight through lace curtains is one
of my favorite things
i say as the lacey light/shadows

land on the many-times-painted-and-chipped
kitchen table in the morning light
how the fuel of just one yes is enough
to continue propelling me forward on this
bigdream trajectory

the high and short whistles
of an eagle on the air currents
drifting/circling and then another joining in the call/song
as the first lands in fir boughs shaped
by the saltwater wind blasting in
from the pacific
a few steps into a small small cave
(bigger than a slit) opening
in the mound of rock that appears as the path veers
away from beach grasses and into the
moss and fern and huge-tree land that leads to
the north head lighthouse

the lyrics/chorus how long has this been going on as heard
from seaview washington’s post office lobby
flashing me back to whitehouse kitchen,
gathered around butcher block, jeauxseph saying
so good with neither a squeal nor a giggle but something
perhaps akin to both


still humming

patti smith sound song snippet
as heard from the corner cabin (#8)
as the vehicle whose sound system its playing on
(sound moving through closed car doors and windows
past cabin closed doors and windows)
glides past and turns from 38th place
onto J place
the maintenance person cruising back and forth in front
of the windows, pedaling solo in his flannel and jeans
dull against the sheen shine of the royal/teal blue frame
the black and sheen of the crow perched
on top of the beach speed limit sign
in the gray light of a gray day with all the green and gold
of grass and dried grass in the background
how the creature uses its whole body to caw

what ensues when a spider wrangler and a word tester
meet each other across a table
at which is served too expensive food
and then walk 450 feet back
down the post-rain street,
ocean roar still humming
in the background



back over the wave

gigantic windchimes sending soft sound
on the winds that knock through them
on a porch across the way
alongside the sway of multicolored bouys hanging
on thick rope in a tree

how the wind picks up the spray of surf and sends it
backwards back over the waves
as they crash forwards
and then ther’s the way that the morning light lands
and moves through it all
the hint of purplepink on the tips and edges
of thin and tiny petals of some small daisies
i pluck from a sideyard on my return
from the ocean hello and morning run
one thing i want to bring with
but am unable to:
the entire swaths of dark sand
and all the glimmers dotted across them


syllable by syllable filling

the shine of pine sap on fingertip in the sun swiped
from a drip-drooling trunk and spread
across gnarley paper cut to glue
it all together and heal it quick

while speedwalk-racing the sun and its lingering light
we walk parallel to the wave-crashings
and name more rules for the ocean:
1. when dining with the queen, always use the ocean spoon and
don’t slurp when you are eating/imbibing the ocean
2. never drink the ocean on a full stomach
3. never turn your back on the ocean
how there is no other way
to traverse the inlets
the mini rivers flowing oceanwards
except to stop
and take off one’s shoes
where the path curves away from ocean scrub
and into lush forest with gigantic ferns
how the edges of the path are bright
with the green of moss
our voices tossed off the
corners and walls of the world war two lookout
which i call a bunker
the yemaya song
syllable by syllable filling  this
oceanside space
how we both pause and bend
bringing our noses in towards the sweetness
of what must be honeysuckle
but whose flowers are mini
which seems to mean nothing to the pollinators
who buzz and dive around



the tiny bell that tells

the fog gathering around the tree-filled point
that we beach-walk towards, wondering if its fog
that just looks like fog from a distance but that we’ll never reach or
fog that we’ll eventually be able to touch/feel/see/walk through
how donna, never having met us before, somehow knew
of the tradition of briging the workshop instructors
with chocolate (she hands one bar to each of us)
the tiny bell that tells us that time is up and
the floorspill of photos we get to pick from
and the encouragement to write fear-wards and
using every river/water related sense i can
in 5 minutes or less
while the room is quiet
with this concentration
i’m like a dog always rolling over to show
its belly or  bending in half, not necessarily submissive,
but using this smiling and open face to let other sknow
i have no intention of aggressing upon them
i say