New Year’s by the Sea

The boiling sea stews the bones of the sunset
No one knows who this soup is for

My room faces the water
All night, I see fireworks draw prayers in the sky

A lighthouse by the sea has no chance to meditate
When boats go blind, it’s got to toss them bright ropes

I left footprints in the sand like I was grateful for something
Right – if it’s spring, we can save on depression

Spinning Top

It disdains caution
Never kneels
Even though it’s going to fall
It holds its spine straight

Lash by lash, it withstands its whipping
Spins in its suffering waltz
It can only imagine itself as a sun
Orbited by a whip

Its toe hisses
Its toe is a drill aimed at Earth
All its life it’s been drilling but it can’t take root

It has no eyes
Relies on the dizzying work of spinning for a flight path
When it’s so tired it topples over, its friend the wind
Abandons it

Cup

A cup is an open mouth
You kiss each day
The water you drink is the river’s clear heart

A cup is an eye
Its brown pupil of tea
Glares every day at you, liar

Do you hear a cup’s voice when you drink water?
See how a cup is the chosen nest of silence?
When you blow on tea, your cup
Saves every word the ripples write – do you believe that?

Since childhood, this cup has been legless
Your hands are wings to fly it through the room
Even if you drain it, leaving it nothing
It thinks your lip print is a marriage contract

At night, the cup brims with darkness
You are the dawn it longs for

Image © The Cleveland Museum of Art