�or does the land lean down to lift the sea from under,
drawing it unperturbed around itself?
--Elizabeth Bishop
All the great ships still float. Nothing is buried. That cannot be retrieved. In one way or another. The wreck of ourselves. The detritus of lost trust. Memory from the blank page.
Always the duality of being. The waves. The vulnerability of genius. The sculpted phrase.
Why doesn�t a cardinal�s red fade? Why does beauty protect no one?
Once I dreamt of water, I was saved. This new moon fools no one. It doesn�t hold the old moon in its arms like the poet said.
Death Valley is coming alive. Wildflowers everywhere. The distance there is the same for each.
In Florida I leave the dead weight of prairie behind. Write about the early loss of self. I say, I want to live on water, eyeing the long stretch of horizon. Though I say I will forget the undertow�s tempting pull, I lie.
I hold my old self in my arms. Florida�s pools deepen as life takes hold in all dominions. Wet. Random. Promiscuous. Ardent.
From shore I cannot tell dolphin from shark. For some, water is enough. The Portuguese fisherman, for instance. I almost knew him.
There is no one left to love. Tumbleweed longs for stillness. Wells are dry. Treasure slumbers beneath the sea. I have already been there, have nowhere to go.
[Part one of a poem derived from journal entries from February 28-April 16, 2005]
The idea for "The distance there is the same for each" comes from a Norman Dubie poem.
