Eyes wide,
propped and pried,
and the voice of yesterday

blows its gale
into my sail,
and I get hoisted all away.

Every breath is just a hollow hungry for the snow,
and all the clay in Orange County
won’t keep the weeds from growing.

Satellite,
pulling tight
every stone against the lake.

Speaking spells
into ourselves,
but this old medicine won’t ever take.

The water rises with every truth I never said,
and all the clay in Orange County
might give my bones a bed.

Gold haze
possum days
fade into a quiet gloom.

The sunflowers
mark the hours
since last light washed out of the room.

Another night will come and write its name along the rocks,
and all the clay in Orange County
won’t make it ever stop.