this place is for
holidays
only,
we live in a room far
more dark and
empty
where walls hold
generations
of intentions confined
to frame,
portraits snapped at
different
times
all boast the same
ghastly grin
in grey,
but we’re on
holiday.
rhyme
i drift sky
waves
like they know
my name
and mend in their
embrace,
while atop beach
rocks,
swimmers pause to
gawk
as i’m carried
off into
space.
i hear rubber gripping
fresh rainfall
and watch clouds circle
like seagulls
while neighbors vs. neighbors
rekindle each
other..
i smell stale incense
as the hours
trip on
by.
pausing while chomping
at the lead of
a pencil,
thinking of writing
but the well’s
run chalk
dry,
anticipating ideas that
get wedged in the
brain wires..
shaking my head in
the hopes they’ll
be freed.
it’s friendships like
keepsakes
stashed in boxes
in drawers
that i should
visit more.
rainbow on a stone
backdrop
i see cracks in
clouds
midst breaks in
speech
and pretend
i spot
where eyes can’t
reach.
it honors the sea
to let her
speak–
your secret’s safe
with me.
the threat of pests
in my place
of peace
chafes the skin and
all beneath
and scratching
offers no
relief.
holding space for
past disgraces
in hands of crystal
pressed to
face
to profess
truths
that return
hurt
to place
of rest
as toes touch
earth.
time sits
thick
like the smell
of fish
in the back of
my throat
on a broken down
vacation
boat
aimed at open
sea.
hands in the garden 
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