winterfall | off-track | drift/february 2

it flattens out, the sea
gray beyond where
surfers drift and read
the ocean like backs
of hands.

winterfall, but no longer on track | gray

beyond the break of
bone or wave or self and soul
flat gray horizon

winterfall (eking out winter)

you speak of phantom limbs,
and a memory of bridges burned blue
deep in January, tonight maybe
stars steeped in bone and honey.

winterfall weekened post

one day the circus I hope
not in my own body, no
legged long and lithe some day
with sequins and, and streaming hair
glances cast 'round the tent, and
landing shouldered and unsquared there.

winterfall | salted too

What happened to all the good math books?

I have salt on the brain. 
Salted bones, salted feathers:
pyramid of salt, slurry of snow.

Talk about hips, the hips, my hips here.
[Hand on hip as if to animate.]
Blue.  Always blue.  All is blue tonight.

I'm clearly not ready to retire the blue. 
And in the same breath I can mutter but

I am ready to unleash the pink
mostly in the key of grunts and groans.

winterfall something lost behind what (numbers have lost their meaning)

Talk about the hip here
and how salting the skin
reminds you of chasing
the ice cream truck down
the block.

It doesn't make sense
to me but I remember
how rocket popsicles
left me sticky and bluelipped
         and how even then
they reminded me of you.