Abalone, coastal fog,
talk of tides.
What is life
but a rusty crab pot
and a hundred poems
Told, untold, fold, unfold,
Open, close, like a book
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?