The bird songs ring out harmonious
Their calls for some wanton *******,
The best type.
Reciprocated across the landscape
Which is not the right word
There’s more sea here than land.
an orange hangs low in the lonely sky
Perfectly ripe,
Dripping wet with honeyed shades of gold,
Coating palm trees and my knees.
Also my cigarette box and my coffee mug. A slow swell pitching and yawing,  
a side to side appreciated only by those trying to sleep.
A breeze lazier than I licks my cheeks and fondles my thighs.
It’s time, to go.

Photos from five years ago
I captioned them
"My yard is blooming!"
And it was
bursting
with pastel purple irises, cheerful snow *****, and cunning wisteria

Photos taken the second month
we lived on the island.

I love Baltimore, my city.
I don't want to move
but I miss this place
and the place before that.

And there are so many places
to see
to live.

Happening onto this set of photos
and my stomach twists--
to be there again
with the smell of *****
steaming at the little shop across the street
with the marsh grasses swaying
and the peepers starting their evening chants.
Is my neighbor still out there working on his truck
or selling tomatoes at that flimsy wooden table?

At 30-ish, I already find myself missing
about four different places and sets of people
How many places will I have to miss at 40--
at 80--if I should be so lucky?

Pieces of my heart and stomach
are scattered across this little patch of East Coast and Appalachia.

How many times can they be divided?
No, not divided.
They're multiplying.

I sail through the ocean
Of love to reach you.
At last I left alone in the
Island of love alone as it is
Without knowing the way to
Get out from here.

as the birds fly south for winter
the excavators come home to roost.
they bow their heads to the ground,
wishing for wings to tuck their necks under.
everyone guards piles of salt and twisted metal
brushed cold and golden by the sun.
a boat lifts its arms to the sky,
all rattling chains and gentle, grasping claws.
gentlemen, best prices for scrap here:
all metals, all amounts.
the highway crawls home.

looking into
your eyes,
i wouldn't think
of getting lost
in them.

instead,
your eyes
are a getaway
where i find myself.

All of a sudden, I am there again. With out any warning. Stranded, on a little island, inside myself. I can see and hear people, but I can’t make out what they are saying. Or who they are even.  I’m just stuck, on my island feeling numb.

It can happen frequently, hourly even, yet sometimes weeks will go by when I don’t visit that place. Then, again, out of no where, I’m back. Surrounded by a Black Sea of nothingness.  Sometimes I can save myself, swim away. Dry off and go about my day as if I were never there. Other times I stay wet from the water, i feel sodden and heavy, irritated by the salt.

I’d like to say it gets easier being there but I think I have just become accustomed to it. Accepting of it, almost.

I don’t want to accept it, but it’s less draining that way. Or maybe that’s what I hope. I’m not sure any more.

I visited my island today. Not out of choice you see, I just seemed to drift there, taken by the current. I stayed a short while.

I would like to stay away, from that island, if i could. But it all depends on the tide.