No, It’s Mine: The 13th Stanza

Syllables smash against
the whitewashed concrete floor below.

Now all I can hear is the sound
of someone else’s ocean

in a conch shell I find buried
beneath a cedar shingle shack,

destroyed by fire. It is no accident.
The day my father dies,

I do not recognize my own name.

Letters taste foreign
as rusted hinges

and shallow pools
of savory brine.

Weathered and Racked

Behind a picture frame, buried
in the sand beneath
handmade cedar shingle

swings, above
the dunes, floating on

the surface of a disturbingly calm
bay, I might discover
my new obsession.

Don’t Touch the Stagecoach

If I can’t, I will
need to hitch
another ride
into the labyrinth.

Dust and sweat
and wooden mile
markers will crowd
the view in. A spun-out

tale to find
the way out.

Day 1,819 (The Keys)

They come in all sizes
to unlock doors, lock them
up again. They open
mail boxes, barricade cabinets and diaries
from curious eyes. Chiming
in my loose pocket, they turn
security into a musical instrument
before doubling back as a weapon
on dark, empty streets. They anchor
me to the city. A weight inside,
they keep me

from floating off
the ring around lost
before found.