Crossing the Strait

The sea is a radiance
of flying fish.
And the clouds too
crowd and play
in their own deep ocean.
Here the hills spread out
like a banquet of goodbye,
and in the voices of others,
the migrant joy of salt.
Crossing the strait,
the seabirds already send me,
like a message,
to the unwritten shore.

Abandoned House

You shelter now only these grasses that cling
to your naked, aching pillars,
that converse with this invading sky
climbing in through your open windows.

In those years that once clothed you,
you embraced the brief visitors
who stirred through frayed curtains
and passed away like a draft.

Still we sense them here
as the untranslatable verses of the drifting dusk.

Nights you held your roof like a parasol
above them, stolid civility,

a certainty called back through forfeit generations.
How they grew and mustered their lives in your hollow chest
and prepared themselves for gentle death.

Now, the tussocks that come like waves of time
and finger at your falling walls,
and the plunging stars
that scoop you closer to the end ,

they surround you like old friends,
you, who were once a home
and now only an ear for the wind’s hushed fire.