from The Bone and the Body
My feet dream the dream of my head
and together I walk down to the beach dark rollers
each a house
if I could see from underneath the wooden arch above
the plank seam
the hinge of a barn ceiling
a sea of houses their pitched peaks
traveling I cannot find their ways in.
My toes touch the sill
a thin line lapping edged in foam
the inside, a set of sturdy rooms
the outside, the sound around a hoof beat
as my feet dream a footpath into the sea
* * *
my house there is a spray hose.
To twist full of water. To coil
at my feet to clean
to lineate the water
to hold solid with my hands as though the cord belonging to a back
but I stand on the beach
a bone between every finger.
I find no sand
between the vertebrae.
From this I learn to clean
is to care
is to take a hoof pick to each crevice
is to smooth each white crest
is to keep house.
* * *
A sandbar reaches out to hold my horse's feet
too far from the beach
the sand too white but we stand atop it
looking down to
the eye of the ocean
at the center of the sandbar where it funnels down to a dark hole.
The sand knows us
it shakes itself out of the water
becomes a valley of glass beneath us
opens wide the mouth the eye the open door
* * *
The bone broken
gray shaft and teeth
the head of the key like a ball joint. I have stolen
what belongs inside a body I could cut
into weathered wood
the planks of the pier
from which fall shards of the story
numerous as sand