Do Not Count Our Days
Everything changed when the
east wind whisked our bodies away. But I
followed your tracks to the sea: to where
white waves tiptoe onto land,
and rocks rest under watery skin.
Since I have known you,
I borrow your eyes to observe the world,
and what I hear, I hear through you:
as though there was a second world.
Read to me from the glass shards shattered
on the beach. Translate for me the cries
white seagulls drop into the deep. But do not
count our days: do not count the sand
that is hidden in those stranded shells.
I borrow your ears to listen to prophecies,
and what I see, I see through you:
Water at Night
In the middle of every night,
the moon’s noise wakes me.
I hear water everywhere.
Water that whispers in capillaries.
Water that hides under cracks.
Water white with soap.
Water quiet from coal.
Water that drips into the aquarium.
Water that leaps from the roof.
Water that cascades down the stairs.
Water that rushes over the road.
Water always goes the path of least resistance.
Water always finds a way.
Water has ways to flow in places far away.
You can cross the waters to America.
Or to the Cape of Good Hope.
Water scuttles ice down the Red River.
Water mollifies the leatherbacks in Nicobar.
Water carries you through monsoon jungles,
and eases you down to warlorn submarines.
Half asleep I search for the white bucket,like every night,fill it with warm water.Water draws women to the well,where it changes from dark to light.
I reach for my father’s weary feetthat have come in from the dusty road,like every night,
to wash his tiredness away.Water washes away guilt.But his chair is empty.The pillow has fallenonto the exhausted rug.
Water is a carpet to the faithful.
Water is always more than itself.
Or less, the Mariner says.Yes, I envy the ocean’s generosity,that lets its fish swim freely.
I pour the bucket to the fish.
It changes from dark to light.
I feel water everywhere.It is rising to my eyes.
Maybe I, too, have lived too longWhere I can be reached.*