Pacific Coast, July 2012


Abalone, coastal fog,
talk of tides.

What is life
but a rusty crab pot

and a hundred poems

Told, untold, fold, unfold,
like breathing.

Open, close, like a book
of souls.



Lovemaking heard through a motel wall
like violin practice of the insane.

Snow-capped mountain like one shoulder
showing when a loose blouse slips

And a thin black bra strap reminds me
of the poem with your second-best panties.

We dress our thoughts in black and white
words as if wearing truer colors would be

admitting too much. Hands that know
their mind, a kind of dumb eloquence.



it is funny how

we have come to depend on

each other’s words, no?


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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