Listening to “Sandusky”

I must learn how
to describe each tiny movement
from solid green to a yellow brushed with red breaking 

into orange without  
these blocks of language. I turn up the volume
when this instrumental plays—sweet 

guitar sings vocal lines, the human voice
at rest. Seductively rich
baritone be still 

for these moments, while I work
on my lesson, a thing I am to practice
with my soul—
without a bridge.

Cedar Point Not Lost (Day 2,160: Take 3)

Sandusky is not merely amusement, not merely
a beer garden, bathhouse, dance
floor where the first lover
would begin to break 

my hope over cold water. Edging Lake Erie,
a peninsula not an island 

after all, Ohio’s tendency for hills. I stay away
to prevent roller coaster motion

sickness—we’re never cured
from the disease
of memory.  What we get
if we’re very lucky, and the light 

is with us, is
a daily reprieve from our inner ear’s relentless imbalance.