“Hard on the land wears the strong sea and empty grows every bed.”

I am not blogging so much lately as reading the works of these great poets and writing secret things about Lenin and the sea to get into grad school somewhere farther and colder and newer from where I am now.  

W.S. Merwin

Robyn Schiff

John Berryman

Marianne Moore

From the flotsam in the eely night, you salvage me still.  

Sometimes everything culminates at once(recalling how the waves sound, laughing and suddenly detecting a missed sincerity returned, a mixed tape, a perfectly witty conversation with a friend, a new denim shirt)in such a way that life takes on a familiar texture, like the gnarled sheepskin inside a pair of old moccasins or a blade of summer grass skimming through thumb and forefinger. Then the sun just barely decamps and leaves its pink ghosts floating off and I can see what they might mean prattling on about god. Or at least nostalgia.