every night the sun plays a set
and for this one I am front row sitting
with walls of driftwood
like large bones
and it’s calming
after that long line of sunshine
on my right all afternoon
as I drove.
roads, walls,
orthogonal kin that bind and bound
across the landscape
like weave and urban weft
though this is confused by
the hills I follow riverine
that have terraced themselves
with such delicacy
into little foot-tall
flower-edged contours
that are both road and wall.
driving clarifies
the more saturated solids
of a cultured life;
something about the quiet progress
of it, and so when I see
(after a dip in the ocean
to accompany the sun)
the way this wind
blows ripples into a
fresh lagoon: clear at the
boundaries, dappling into
evershifting/eversame
brushstrokes
then slowly across space
not time saw
-toothed crests
each with a different beak
I think yes
this
is the metaphor I’ve
been looking for
for walking at the right
pace
while asking questions