I was going through some milk crates,
which is where I keep my writing and
I found a book I was working on
“Living w/out a Muse: an expedition.”
But like a lot of my books,
they end up packed away.
cause as a chef,
I do not have the time to
work on and edit.
The book had a few poems
that had been in other books,
but most where poems
that were floating around.
and this though I had added to a book,
as what musicians would call
a hidden track.
This poem was one of those that just come;
and you figure it out later.
I wrote it on a cig break at work
on a card board box in the change room,
and then, went back to work.
I had forgotten all about it;
until, one of the dishwashers brought the box to me.
Days go by and I do not understand a word you say,
as your waves rise and lower upon the bed.
I think maybe I should have begun to understand;
but the words you speak are the notes of a song
sung many generations ago in a language
handed down only in etched stone.
The melody of your voice is simple but steady
and who can not admire the grace of step,
the giving of skin,
as you roll across sea-oats and shell beds.
The droplets of sweat that form and glisten
are both wet and salty to the touch of the tongue.
I am afraid as all men probably are,
as I attempt to swim to the core of your soul,
that you would storm and I drown.
So I build walls of rock and concrete upon the sands
to try to keep you at bay.
And only visit you when your waters are calm.
But this doesn’t work, a single wave from you
would drown my house.
So I have chosen the only solution:
to camp out upon the shell beds in your arms
under the stars
and wait and listen for a reply,
for you to instruct me how to fathom your love.