They don’t touch the gray stone
at the edge of that old cliff that seemed
to wear away the same space everyday.
It was something to look at from a distance
like a monument you weren’t allowed to handle.
On holidays they would light candles
and display them near the cliff
where that rock lurked under
the orange light that broke apart the night
and all it’s blueness soaked away
from morning sky.
There is music in the background
of the frozen concrete mini mall
that has absorbed them all
with nothing but a photo booth
that never quite develops.
Like these words to you I am enveloped
by the water I’m surrounded by
but I can’t fly the same way
as these lines.
The view from here caught up
in all these strings is like a memory
of something worth forgetting.
All this regretting makes the smoke
of all our fires smell like mulberries
and in that sweetness you
mistake it for the air.
A pissed off kid knocks
that stupid rock off the edge
of the horizon and when it falls
into the sea it sinks like something
unafraid of what is down there.
Nothing has a proper place
locked in the confines
of unending space, but weirdly
no one ever seems to want to
talk about it. You can take
what you are certain about
on a walk with you around
the corner of the world
you now inhabit.
It sits on your shoulder
like a parrot on a pirate
but looks a little ike a dragon
if it shrank.
We wear our thoughts like clothes
in these parts where all the art
is just a scam for making money,
and all the happy eyes are staring
back at yours.