Solid Ground

And the rain
moves in like
the questions
you ask

as the thunder
rolls over
that drum
in your chest

so you look
to the sky to see
when the quiet
will come

but the ground
is where you
should be



Today I peeled back
all manner of things:
white and wind-swelled
morning curtains for
the flood of copper sunlight
and also the speckled
sheath of one ripe banana.
I exposed the body inside
of a fresh tamale’s damp
blond husk, still warm
from the brick oven and
the soft hands of Francesca.
All day alone in the almost
rain, I peeled off my voice
and tossed it into the bin
with the banana shell
and the corn wrappers
(now there were three),
where they lay all tangled
into the flesh of each other,
a silent yellow homage
to the necessity of

On Crawford Reservoir

Where there is water,
there is sky – a sunset
reflection in subtle blues

and rippled oranges
from here to the shoreline
and the soft sweep

of paddles that barely disturb
a quiet conversation,
or the buzzards gathering

on the beach,
or the empty truck parked
on the land that is waiting

to take everything back home –
boats, boaters, oars
and words exchanged.