And I’m’a just leave this here, where it won’t be in anyone’s way …
Our Home Is Near the Ocean
Our home is near the ocean
but I have to travel 800 miles back here to take
the salt as it should be
Dead salt
Desert salt
Married in inert red rock and the motion of purple strata-skies
It blows down from mountains still
quilted with middle-May snow
(they say the water cycle carries it all the way up there—
higher even—
quite high in fact—
high as clouds flying lakes and rivers like resolute kites)
it rains down, choosing running over falling
some years a boon, a curse others—
all depends if and where those thunderous monoliths of summer
resolve to upend their lightning
their quivers of dynamos
And as I drive, windows down—
not home—
our home is 800 miles back there
waiting near the ocean—
I smell only warm brine and wonder why
the salt that leavens my blood
and seasons the food my family eats together
cannot preserve my duty or fear
and has never been good enough
to keep me
Once Written, Twice Wry 