Centerville Beach

i feel the need to stretch
my back over round chiseled
drift wood, shoulder blades
gripping ridged knots under
my thumbs. i lift my throat
and tilt my head/ mouth propped
open wider than the horizon

and listen to the fragile work
of ocean waves carving rock faces
out of ancient sand. she exhales
dew into the sky’s palm. he grips
her breathe so tightly his sun
hides behind his fist, dark cloud
clench thunder heads with
white knuckles, squeezing
sweet nectar dripping like rain drops
running like rivers down the sand stone
expressions a mother molded out of clay.

we must’ve learned how to throw pottery
from watching the timely work of waves.

the quiet discipline of receiving divine
teachings and inviting god’s grace
into the empty space occupying the distance
between our skin.

i lay to rest the notion of creating perfection

and open my arms to the work of art
my parents painted, brush tips dipped
in star dust remnants. hands stroking
the ridged top of mountain peaks, eyes
gazing at the horizon of mistakes, lips
wet with biology and evolution, mind
surrendering to the pulse of humanity.

i am ready to chew
the seeds of sound
swish the signature
of time down my throat.

watch the moon wax
n wane under the curve
of my naval, nightly.