Thursday, April 14, 2011



A thing no one can answer,
although many will pretend,
is how a thing's becoming
keeps becoming to its end.


The thing I wanted
to tell you as we drove
past Sandy Beach

on the way back
from shopping in town,
near the end

of another one
of our windy,
sunny afternoons

following another
one of your endless
sleepless nights,

was, Let's pull over
here. There's no
one at the beach.

We can take out
the baby and a blanket.
We can sit down

beside the Colorado
River and a cottonwood
tree. We can bake in late

sun until we're done
or the shadows catch
us, expensive frozen

groceries be damned.

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