Take No Heroes Hotel

Everyone has reservations.
A porch no one
can describe wraps
around its house—tightening,
tightening. Hugs

the footprint as a disciple
of home is
where you check in
without a check-out time. Tin
tile ceilings in the two-story

lobby. A triangle
park and a bluff
anchor all activity
in the oceanfront garden. Bonfire
night after night where effigies

of the over-worshipped burn.
What washes ashore below

erases questions and desire
for answers. I could drag
my dinghy across the sand
and know it’s time.

Sundialing

Thanks for reminding me how
to seduce mean
from time. I’m lost

inside the simple-eyed cricket
stare of my junk
watch. I want you

on an island next to mine.
We’d build a skyway
then blow it apart

each night in our sleep. I’d build
a dinghy, tuck oars inside
its belly, shove it your way,

get back to this. There would be
no meantime. But, no,
forever those flats, that child

unborn, naturally
washed out with the tide.

I no longer darken—I lighten
my own steps.