1: Drift
The lavenders' lavender sprays like a lawn
being sprinkled. Wind through the pines.
This June light. The lavenders' sprays;
the lawn being sprinkled. A butterfly
swaying on the butterfly iris bud.
2: Being Eddy
I liked the fertile resonance
my life then possessed—the time
on my hands; the loose change
in my pants pocket; the kind way
the sun brightened the angles
on your pretty face.
3: Sand and Foam
Sea palms rocking on the rocks.
White water swells and backswells—
the continual agitation reaching
for my toes.
I found some seashells on the shore
and a finally cleansing meditation.
4: At the Lagoon
Ocean spray masking the summer's heat.
The wind keeping everything in motion—
an idle afternoon with children at
the woody lagoon. Dogs in the side
channels; the children's soap bubbles
burst by the swaying reeds.
5: Privilege
I found a condom on the beach.
I found a leg bone. All morning
I fancied Jesus as a speeding boat.
Choosing a pebble from the water's edge
I changed its location.
6: Carmel by the Sea
1st of July, the village swells with
perfunctory anticipation and fog;
those for whom the ocean is a rare delight
gather in clumps on the main beach
and marvel. The old woman, the local
whose pleasure it is to jog the wet shore,
moves quickly through the throng.
7: Ocean Frolic
Water playing on the rocks, water
prancing; water racing upshore
like boys from their mother—amphibian
dexterity. A small swell quietly rises,
and with a slap, surprises his brother.
8: Day at the Beach
Her disarming breasts, a cut foot,
the endless patience of young men
in wet suits; waves. A day spent
at the beach—beachlight; the pseudo-
munificent gesture of the ocean's exquisite
offerings.
9: Soledad
Something growing there on the alluvial
fan; something domestic. Something
also in the exchange between agriculture
and the left-alone. Lettuce, cauliflower,
the elusive in neat geometrical planes.
10: Seen and Not Seen
I found a birdnest by the oak.
I saw a water snake in the creek.
During the hike my mind slowly
emptied. Only later did I note
the photograph I had just taken.
11: Shift, Uplift
Hiking now on the knuckled ridge. Dwarfed
by the jumble and exposed tectonics—
wearied by summer sun, embellished
by the wind, to that ruddy place
where the uplift rises in ribbed cliffs
succinctly toward something.
12: American Summer
Stained glass window in the side door
of a lengthy motorhome. Pin striping,
trout decals, the allure of the open road.
An ancient relative with cigarette and cocktail
bent armed at the dining table, regarding
the rush hour crawl.
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