Handmade foam rubber wetsuits,
neon yellow with a blue hood
wrapped in Ocean Beach fog.
It’s always summer on the inside.


The scent of cherry tomatoes
ripe on the vine at dusk.
Or onions opaque in a skillet.
Soil and sizzle, I’m home.


Years tracking down stories
then told in twenty minutes.
Narratives making sand flow.
Density turning into viscosity.



That time I made my wife drive
with me into the hills to see
the harvest moon visible from our
stoop. Just a little closer now.


Rafters to cellar, doorbell to crib
Stonewashed, soil-stained
Chainsaw and soak hose
Mended pipe, pierced copper.



The man born this day
gave up his bed
when I lost my own.
Hush, he gestured. Rest.


Minimal lines in a drawing.
The few pen strokes
are finalists of hundreds
— or the sum of them.

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