Saturday, August 17, 2019

mmcmii

     A god grew there, a god grew there,
     A wet and weblike god grew there.

                                 —Jack Spicer

I still can’t think of paradise
without thinking of you. How

many nights, the view of the
plummeting vista—the

ridge correcting its course—
are sideswiped by these

fantastical visions? You lie,
knees bent upward on the

beach of a non-existent is-
land? What I mean by that

is a blaring love that per-
meates the sinking earth—

that is one with the sound
of the earth as it sinks ever

deeper—and the spindrift
that smolders the Pacific.

I still can't think of paradise