Saturday, June 23, 2007


Your skipping-stone glides around
as if a flying fish crosses from ocean

to ocean, shines its scales. The ocean
fills up with acerbic sentiments. You give me

the smoothest, ocherous stone
with dirt, but the best kind of skipping-stone. I throw

horizontally but it dives and splashes. The waves
ripple. My tears dribble

into the ocean. I wasted
your stone. I waste another

stone. I waste. I
—waste. But when you find

a new one and gently hold the stone in my hand, our palms
lie together like a bivalve. It carries a pearl-gray

hope. Before sunset, I skip my stone once again. A lamp
comes on in a house. A star fragments the western sky.


My lips rest on the edge of a cup
when your eyes gaze at mine.
I sweat in coffee clouds
as if in a steamy bathtub. Your watery
eyes gently swallow
my bare feet. I drop
my white bath towel. Your long
eye lashes
drag across my wet thigh.
With your eyes
you clean me and I bubble
like a goldfish
wiggling its long tangerine tail,
splashing in crystalline
showers of your tears. While I float
you wait for me, holding
a trench coat of your perfume.
It covers my body. I drop
the cup. Coffee flows across the floor.
Your eyes are dyed with stains.


Vol 43 #2 Puerto del Sol