moon pause
The ocean every day
spitting up on the beach
rocks, dead things and live,
wind tumble and grind while
here, river revolves on itself,
murky, rippling fish
laze on the surface
except at night under streetlights
on the bridge, when it prickles
dimples of mating fish
herding upstream.
I look for drama
for back-wash:
in my dream snappers
alarmingly plow upward
and turn a cooked pumpkin
into soup. I forget
which direction to the bus
wade into water
in a cleft of rock
lost or nearly:
the snapper spoons.
mostlyczam 