BURIED

under dunes ancient paths pressed by sand rocks and skeletons lying beside, evidence covered and then recovered, time preserved, desperate voices absorbed, disorder with perfection, void of seasons absent of sounds protected within ancient layers

THE PARTS WE FEAR

his face, locked in the evidence of a traveled soul inner sufferings surfaced as disturbed currents threads from his past acted as an anchor, pulling him back from the edge of his unknown parts

BEAT THE DRUM

there’s a raising at the French quarter with crowds dancing and colliding like changing tide waters crossing streets drinking with passion while cable car singers and corner horn players beat a noise under a dreary humid mist as the sweating and smiling, celebrate for any reason without a holiday

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PASSING SILENT

eyes of clouds watched over me in faintest of darkness or summer shoreline, on equal or unequal ground, beneath the place I stand, wondering upward where currents swirl unnoticed above me as I glance into a vapor face passing without voice like the dreams I know in the invisible

UNDERWATER

on the bottom, looking up into gauzy folds of water, feeling pressure on my chest, securing me within this green blue garden where light is absorbed above into waves passing overhead, unobstructed, as I observe the other side of looking down

THE EDGE

morning breezes carry the keys of day as tides mark the hours and sun creates shade on everything during the current solstice or equinox reminding the short minded, those lacking patience while standing at their edge of their faint hope, summers are fleeting, but memories are forever

EQUATER TURNS

a darkened path, tight like a line of granite fists rebels against the changing season, though finally surrendering like the last leaf, separating its bond due to issuing winds, as overwhelming changes sculpt the next solstice to rediscover itself

SIDEWALK ARCHIPELAGO

the ebb and flow, searching for an eventide, a homeostasis of flesh and cloth weaving unspoken, threads without contact yet touching without knowing, the salmon instinct of activity, the struggle in mass for the end result, each arriving separately

HALF NOTE DINER

two steps up and to the right a glass door with a smooth metal handle like a sun dried cotton shirt swings open to a place where strangers and regular’s sit on stools or in booths leaning forward sharing hushed tones while some wait and others accept disappointment as the city outside rushes by