“When I was young in a poets’ land, their
salt breath swam eastward even when westward like
a perpetual game of masquerade of
curved spaces as a cave curves the waves,
bearing perfect in a strike of stanza.
I home in on the memory that sweets the air
gripping within its purchase east and west
like a hungry beast.
My talents shudder to their ghosts of savior
cruising the meadow, like a white footed mouse
poising in wonder, no shame to warm old souls
like sheltering islands from ocean swell,
wishing myself a safe passage to the skill
of god’s butcher.”