Pale Wind 

Once, the fish swam in the night sky –
a galaxy inside her belly.

She bore stars and pushed out tears, recalling

The angry cycle of mourning the living.

I had the chance to talk with her,

a chance to travel around her galaxy.

I saw the cycle churning,

filling and unfilling her fists,

palms milk white.

I felt the pain safely escape away

from her memory, from the dark house.

Although she lost the tears,

the memory of it twinkles.

Dead and alive in her sky.

Astronomers attach no name to that time,

That spiral pattern.

That place ejected from her insides.

I looked at the fish finding his way in the night.

He broke out and fell

into a motion you’ll remember as no accident.

You felt it coming. The pale wind

reaching for him.




Men were once a marine oddity,

mysterious sleek shapes, flat as canoes

hovering over the ocean floor

prepared to advance and attack foreign


They were deterred by their own growth

silent and able,

creeping and naval. 3f58a3091dd2e6db8b5d049ddbc90603

It Stings and it Heals


Abalone, starfish, Rain –

I suppose I will permit them into the waves.


Before concrete arteries, oceans substituted in one large jar, the preserved animals

now kept under microscopes    decayed

smelling like pickles and chlorophyll.

From the backyard of Western Biological,

bookcases store vegetables in filing cabinets

under the Pacific saliva.

As many as 100 encyclopedias attempt to

combine and separate

worms, urchins, nudibranchs,


to make a Picasso into a sensical Dali,

but we all know boxes don’t make sense

in a fluid body.

Cell walls are permeable,

rooms you can enter, float to and fro

exchange energy that is needed. Whenever you please.

Sit on a bench and ponder how the ocean spray

covers barnacles, seals, and humans

when dissection rips and fragments lives

“telling them very profound words to understand.”

Salty saliva drips from our eyes and their slippery pores.

It stings and it heals.


The fish slumber under God’s phalanges. 

They settle beneath kelp and mellow swells that

cannot stop. 

Wooden ships identify the blubbery fish, unknowing 

that big fish do not slumber – 

they rise and saturate

the fish bowl with bubbles – North Star

harnessing helpless plankton.

Men on wooden ships laugh 

at the swarms of big fish. 

The men are wrong. Big fish with blubber do not slumber.

One day the men may slumber

at the intertidal

their phalanges scattered, 

saturated by God’s chirography.