In the White Room

The hum and pop
of fallen branches
in the woodstove

have turned to birdsong
since the day
the unraveling began,

since the moment she tugged
the string
and it was impossible

not to notice
that the whole thing
wanted to come

undone,
and how she now lets
the pieces fall

to the floor
like curiosities,
her fingers winding

and unwinding strands
with the hesitation
and dexterity

of someone
who can finally see
for the first time.

On Abbott Kinney Boulevard, Venice Beach, CA

chrome
handlebar
moustache
perfect
triangle
chest
hair
teal
button
down
pressed
pants
leather
boots
stomp
pavement
unrolling
glances
over
lattes
steaming
sidewalk
walkers
waking
Sunday
morning
storefronts
smelling
perfume
wearing
graffiti
painting
hanging
hibiscus
opening
palms
holding
yeses.

By the Ocean

Let’s take a walk,
you and I,
to the end of the road

where we will watch
the blue ocean
in all of its chaos

and dependability.
There is nothing
to say, really,

except for what we notice
and what we don’t,
and if there are words

to describe this love
that crashes
and breaks

over and over again
onto the ever shifting sand,
then let us say those, too.