Etre

No snug safe harbor
no sane serendipity
to move this conversation forward
or get the grammar for “to be.”

We are shipwrecks
both
rotting on a reef
surf pounded
life boats long drifted
out to sea.

Tyche

A chance meeting
chance happening
the name of a suitor
of a mistake perhaps made
perhaps not
there is a chance
its chance-y.

Games of chance
games of dance
Russian Roulette
or a minuet
parlor gimmick or gift
depending on the stakes
on the snakes
that you charmed
or handled
or just looked in the eye
hypnotized,
come heaven or harlots.

Craved a chance
automaton
didn’t have a chance
Tyche went wrong
wringing her fortune from
the frail
the fragile
the foundering
wrecks on the reef
wracked and retching
with the unrequited brine
of romance.

If we were dice
you’re rolling
if I a die
you’re throwing

SNAKE EYES

no chance
bets off
we’re finally
fucking
folding.

Snags

Severe storm warning
expecting gale force winds...
she would ride it out
except she’s land-locked
between Lovers Leap
and the Valley of Death
where she should
not
fear
everything.

The wind is not whispering.
She shouts for help
to find
an answer
an echo
my echo
my ego
and the distinct
lack
of a view
a vantage point
or a vision
of shelter
of chivalry
of the shivering
shivering
shivering
to come.

Exposure brings strength
like a gull on a rock
a girl in the suite
like a gill in the silt
the guy in the suit
and if it does not kill
then it is a good
gift
of God.

If I get back to here
If I get back to her
I will hew this hemlock
this hedge
this hermetic holly and ivy
and ravage the understory
with hatchet, axe and saw
denude the detritus
and free the flaws
clear cutting
the wind falls
of her fear.

She and Gila

I
too
am exhausted
exorcised
omnivorous
oblivious to
the length and breadth
of my long illness
and the wasting away
and the tasting of spray
from the crashing waves
against shallow cliffs
the reptilian coast
where Gila
and she
have mingled.