My Sand
At the Bottom of Every Woman's Purse
At Sea


My Sand


My sand and gravel company was going out of business.
I asked them to stay in business
but they said that everything had already been built,
including the condominium with the sixteen golden walls.
But if everything had already been built,
why was I still living beneath my umbrella?
Why was the person who was supposed to be opening it
comparing my hands to stones?


At the Bottom of Every Woman's Purse


At the bottom of every woman's purse there is a sail.
However, nobody is ever able to tell you how the sail gets there.
If you ask the woman what the sail is doing there,
I think, all she will ever be able to do,
qualitatively speaking, is just smile at you.
Probably for the better part of the time
that you find you are with her.
You can ask her the next day about the sail
and you'll get pretty much the same response.
If you ask her who the sail belonged to before she got it,
she'll probably try to change the subject and start talking about the trees.
But if you ask her how long she intends
to keep the sail where it is at the bottom of her purse,
I contend, in time she'll start singing to you
about being told that she has to move the chain of her now jeweled wristwatch
from the attic of her newest tower to the edge of a distant sea.


At Sea

I think I'll go sailing today.

I haven't been sailing in a long time.

The last time I went sailing, the moths were on the ground,
correcting their papers,
giving themselves passing marks in flying.

And, I think, I also deserve passing marks in flying—
and, perhaps, for the same reasons.

In fact, I think, when I go sailing today
they can give me the passing marks in a bowl of cherries.

I think, they can wave to me
from the other side of a court that has ribbons.

And, I think, they can ask me to wait
in the same place where the moths will be waiting
when quiet arrives and their ladders are pulled through the sea.