The World is an Ocean

The world is an ocean but no one told me
just how tired these arms could get
when the night sky drew overhead
like a down blanket embroidered with stars.

Trees bend in the wind in the same way
I lean against the deafening silence
in a train station inhabited only by me
and the way my breath stills the air.

Blades of defeated grass stand resolute
as tombstones for worms and me,
biding our time until the sun
pulls back the blanket again.

Death or Dream

Afternoon. Sun. Grass.

Baseball. Laughter.

But wait. Look up.

A plane. No wings. Plummeting.



But wait. Look again.

It’s his plane.

His. His. His.


No. I can’t.

Change scene.

Grocery store. Checkout line. Paper or plastic?

Oranges thump across the conveyor belt.

A child cries. Annoyance.

But wait. Think again.

See him. Alive. Not dead.

Him. Him. Him.


Find him. Go back.

Change scene.

Wreckage. Smoke. Coughing.


Sweat-tracks through dirt-stained skin.


Find him.

Large metal debris screech.

Him. Him. Him.



I was always fascinated by shadows
and the way they hugged the burning sidewalk
in spite of the summer heat that burned
my Oden’s worn paws.

I remember hearing that his heart has stopped
beating after so many years of running and trying
in spite of the way my mother drenched
him in her disdain.

I remember wondering if the shadows really were
so simple as areas shaded from the sun because
I swear I could see them drifting alongside the car
and lulling me to a dreamless sleep.

I wonder now if shadows are the in-betweens,
the ones coming back later, the reincarnates. I
wonder if we all pass through the earth again
as drifting shadows to see the imprints
our lives had left.