Mornings, on the planet where I’m from,
we’d sit on the veranda, wrapped together
as a family of four, in crow-feather quilts, drinking plum coffee.
Evenings we’d wander alone, spread out on the beach
drinking milk wine from last years horse,
and cry for the loves we’d sent back out to sea,
and I’d sit on some strange washed up artifact and laugh
at the blue crabs hopping like rabbits toward the sunken tide,
then, sad again, I’d look at the waves as if expecting
the sea would bring one of them back.