return to the source/punto de referencia
the wind picks up at night though the air is still balmy as
the radiance fades, transforms from sunlight to neon on chrome
and what I feel inside being once again home : I left a mountain
to repent to an ocean again and you left an island to have a moment
even more alone again. yeah, to hear Spanish again, to view bridges
over vast bay-spans, to take white-grain sand in hand and see
stars above us on a cobalt-black canvas of uninterrupted sky.
you gave me everything, you gave me a triangle of noise and
saltwater endless, freshwater depthless. we walked off the beach
and passed Clarice on a stroll in the other direction. I asked her:
"where are you going?" and she replied "on a journey back to the
source". like turtles, like dolphins, brutal tiger sharks and the floating
sea cucumber prized by the Chinese as dinner and unknown to
nearly everyone else. here, it was the ocean once again imploring the
writer to its patchwork of dischord under a torpid sky nocturnal.
I curl up next to you, damp hair here and boardshorts drying on
the balcony's rusted rail painted chalk-white just beyond our
open sliding glass door. so much time in the loud air, now just the mute
sounds of the fan above us, sea beyond us, and those two girls on
the stairwell coming home from the beach-side club, heels in hand.
estivating, we're in slumber for the moment, awaiting the
radiance, first dawn, draw of breath at the sight of surf.
all is ocean and all creatures here dwell whether in sleep
or their bright-eyed return to the surface—they're all back
to the source. just as your plane touched down on native ground,
pulled to its gate, awaited its reward of pax and kerosene.
it came back to its source—you were fast back to your own.
when you wake, when you shower, when you hear birds from
your childhood and smell the bubblegum sweet of Florida in
spring, you know, you know.