hand shading the gold glint
of the ocean,
is my little pocket book
My wife trusts God
to know me
better than I know myself.
The small cold rock of
a song I sang Sunday
turns in my hand.
If my brother whispered
something similar I'd throw it
a mile deep, past dolphins, dinghies,
and the wrong side of dawn.
The bench I watch the west from
is a pew to the wide sky and white caps.
What I negotiate here, what I navigate,
what I need is a way to walk on land,
as well as He traversed the waves.