Dear Almondina –
of the ship canal where no
canoes & kayaks paddle
buildings. And now the Spirit
empty to force
the
blackberries ripe &
I’m in a blue sky
watching time go by
on the Queen Anne side
one’s sat a long time
alone in front of the Burke.
bridge open stops traffic.
Oregon Grape but who eats,
wishing I’d bike
stripes of canal water.
II
Dear Almondina –
Time goes by in stripes
of canal water & it’s all
Husky traffic, I think & one
kayak’s named Necky and a
siren reminds me this is city
and who knew the opening
a lost job would make turns
into forty-nine year romance?
The synchronized paddles of
double kayak nonfootball
bound remind me of that
tidal pool we seek to perfect
slowly.
III
Almondina –
Time told in stripes
of canal water slaps
against concrete banks.
That slapping its own kind
of September perfection
as if Harvest Moon did
have nothing to do with it
as if blue ‘n green
are not
‘n I are not tides
but some lonely avatar’s
dream life dance
reenacted in flesh w/ fresh Saturn
peaches, tomato/basil soup
& the occasional Patrón margarita.
IV
Love, they tell me Almondina
fire. (The love two share
& I’ve learned
work. It dehydrates you
& do things nervous always
But you
a glacier-fed stream like
always always
wet.
is friendship that caught
through other.)
being a pyromaniac doesn’t
make you park on curbs
avoiding water.
Maybe a cool lake or maybe
the Hoh. Never in a hurry
V
Dear Almondina –
Here on the Queen Anne side
of the ship canal where no
one’s sat in a long time
canoes & kayaks paddle
along in front of the Burke
Building. And now the Spirit
of
empty, to force the
Bridge open, stop traffic.
Blackberries are ripe & too,
Oregon Grape but who eats
those? I’m in a blue sky
daze wishing I’d my bike
watching time go by in
stripes of canal water.
VI
Almondina –
“Writing of this kind
trying to provoke a
different way of being…”
Centered in the brain
called the heart taming
each other with ginger
ale or oyster cracker
festoon’d improvised soup.
We each are a bubbling
pot & I take good care
to ensure ingredients of
the finest kind for my
(blood) soup line.
VII
Love, they tell me Almondina
is friendship that caught
fire. (The love two share
through other.)
& I’ve learned
being a pyromaniac doesn’t
work. It dehydrates you
makes you park on curbs
& do things nervous always
avoiding water.
But you
are a cool lake or maybe
a glacier-fed stream like
the Hoh. Never in a hurry
and always always
wet.
VIII
Always wet, woman, getting
an A in the Art of Amor &
there you are again, pouring
jugo de mango or perfecting
the toast of
Here you are
making plans again plans
for porch swings at 80
and maybe we’ll still climb
la montaña then. Maybe
a back alley entrance maybe
lilacs and madrones we can
peel our bad ol’ selves. A Buddha
replaces the toilet paper roll.
Scours the co-op for vegan
dessert. Gets hypnotized
by stripes in canal water
and long nails on a Sunday
morning back.
IX
Sunday morning here with you.
Sunday morning Monk echoes
and purring cats and attachment
to a Lazarus heart and the art
of letting go. Fast as a path
over an avalanche chute.
Lush as the moss hangs
from a rainforest spruce.
Wet as the glacier-fed Hoh
twisting only as a silver ribbon
can bringing the news downstream.
Now the fire’s been started
and all I can do’s tend, watch, try
not to stagger and let the flames
lick where they may.
12:19P – 9.13.08 (Ship Canal)
& 11:14A – 9.14.08
1300 W.