Poem of the Week

I pull off I’s toes and leaves them near the sea, I’s sea,

back to the sea as before, yet an hour’s drift from

Manzanilla, which is no place but a word I loves,

I knows what begins the act of saying things, what is lodged there

a promise of some life, not unlike this coal-grey sky, not unlike

the not-good marching band a street away throwing madness

out with I’s lonely discography, I says “please,” without toes

but what about these feet now that they are not ceased

in their act of making things, disappeared things

things given over to the gesture, the method, to the field

awash and undertow, what is love but the hand returning

to claim the dust red, white, black as a coal-swept evening