February still life
Rain. Which coastal town was I dreaming
last night we’d moved to where the rain
comes with a bookmark of the ocean
and the snow apologizes when it alights on dunes
with the sound of regret? The color of change
on change. Wrapping my head around how one
impermanence devours another
is like leaning on a dune fence:
its weakness is what makes it impossible
To climb or cross. Its effect is staying
In place in a place where no lines hold.
The horizon balances no books. Flat pasts
slide away, pages of undertow. Words too
late to change the page fall as I’m reading it. Rain.