not the flea

For Natalie…

TreestripStanding on the shore;
A sea of whispers—
voices muted, half heard
(suggestive I’m sure)—
lapping at my feet,
their bubbles fizz and burst.

Thinking of a bard.
Not that one of course!
(though he’s as close as ever)
A man of the cloth,
much like Augustine,
grasped by an errant past.

Itching. No conceit
to wrench my words free,
cast reckless and soaring;
Earth-bound and worn smooth
with use — no insect
in which our blood might mix.

Reaching out to brush,
crowded like tall grass,
fleeting meanings—small
but victories nonetheless;
With no master trope
to instruct or delight.

(August 2008)

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