The Swampwater Motel

She was the silent mirror of the tide
              a missing page in the lexicon of
bleached blonde moonlight
                              leaning on the tabernacle
              like Our Lady of Mistaken Identity

That which is in my heart
Lo que está en mi corazón
or buried in the sand at Zuma Beach
where a choir of seagulls sing off-key

devotions & indulgences

              lighting candles for Maitreya,
              Thor Heyerdahl, Kuan Yin, Ensenada
              & the big beat

                              weeping gravel & seaweed

a blade of sunset held to the neck of the sky

Oh lady you need 50 miles of elbow room
              if I had a hacksaw I’d play you a tune
but all I’ve got is this bloodstained t-shirt
                              & the number to a stolen cell phone

as you gather up your diesel light
on the blind side of forever