surfaces hurt
simply, with thin stains
that stay
in shallow permanance.
i should not underestimate
the power and thrust
of shallowness.

discolored, where
the water's strong voice
has worn a groove --
the desert recalls
the shoreline
through us.
there is no mirage,
just shared memory.

old record,
skipping diamond,
next week's rainstorm,
an ex-lover bathing,
the rattling pipe's.

i hear them.
their harmony just beneath
my skin,
wet and shifting.
broken-in floorboards
groaning in flashback
for every touch from
every ancient footfall.
they grow louder
in the dark.

i wake and walk
lightly, pressing
my weight
in soft lifts up
toward the
heavy Above.
i offer
the maalstrom
my silence.

incoming clouds in cupped swells.
shade travels below storm
like shadow falling from bird's
in blind flight.
instinct.
this one arrives at night,
but the dark doesn't recognize
this darkness.
the morning is left
a bit confused.

i read the clouds.
i read the words.
they're exactly the color
of the page.