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Her shadow might have been red
Behind my closed sleeping eyelid.

But surely it would not be bloody
But a mom’s shadow of embrace

When I was away sleeping in bed
To dream of a pretty vestal moon.

Thin air consists of growing old.
It grows old on the body’s howl

About if food comes on Sunday,
If a nurse helper will come back

From a youth’s wedding in trees,
With fresh leaves from a spring.

Boys in a film shoot a dance down
The harvest in a twilight’s breach.

Down a morning, airplane arrives
And ship stands to probe seabed.

Our sky is unmistakable with sun
Hid behind a mountain of clouds.

May fishes hide themselves
In sea’s deepest of shadows

And escape treacherous net,
Deaths in strange stomachs.

My understanding is at sea-
An impossibility of blessing

The innocent fish and boats
Both on their backs in a sea.

(after reading Lucille Clifton’s poem Blessing the Boats)

Now after a decade, in ripeness
We re-live old hotel’s sea-face

We sit in its sea-rusted lounge
Chairs stacked up like memoirs.

An old red and white lighthouse
Looks down on us , long retired.

A ship in sea digs sunlight
To lay it out on the beach.

Crows eat a sun off turtle
On its death in fishing net.

It is a February in evening.
Sea has early meal at sun.

Dogs lie in a pool of silence.
Dog bones disclose hunger.

Migrants take away silences,
On their home-bound backs.

Wash your hands with soap
To break the water’s silence.

On shore, an old light house
Gets cracked up in laughter.

A decrepit rag-picker picks
A plastic or two, from beach.

Snails are deep in their sleep,
In the last night’s sand holes.

A beer bottle’s shard shines
A dawn on a night’s memory.

Afternoon , the sea was calm
And mirrored a big blank sky

The hill sat like a big fish nose
Jumping for periodic breath.

A grey blank shadow striated
Against turquoise of the sea .

Sea was just my vast canvas
On other side of blankness.

A lighthouse is cracked in mind,
Having lost its ships in mid- sea.

The beach is agog with old men
In daily poetry man is blowing.

It is poet’s conch he is blowing,
That sells hundred coins piece.