|Nebraska Center for Writers|
GALAPAGOS: SEA TURTLE
On an island of bird calls and ever crashing surf,|
collected shatterments of whelk, starfish, conch,
a shipwreck built upon the back of centuries of coral,
green by accident of wind and promiscuous gull,
I woke and walked.
My bare foot kicked up
a curve of marble skull cup, smooth
as any goddess' flesh under Praxiteles' hand,
its soft parts worn away, its outer shell still gnarled
and mottled like the sea.
How did it happen
to this one? What day, what season, what sudden tide
making toward this island flipped it backward
against the sharp rocks of the headland, or forced it
tight between two stones--its short limbs pawing
wildly in the merciless air?
Or had its ancient slow metabolism ebbed,
PLACES, THINGS, TIMES
If there were places in the heart,|
would they be places?
A miniature of that attic room
where we made love
lodged on the bend of the vena cava?
A bay window in the septum,
Or do we mean, by places, things?
Where does that quiet hour fit
And if there are places in the heart,
What am I bid