A night barge
drifts upon the gray horizon;
pen strokes stir to capture this
poor pilgrim’s progress.
Then here you go wading
into my thoughts again:
we’re sitting in a cemetery,
watching for headlights,
watching the leaves journey
The barge still chases
the distal West.
And I’m still chasing phantasms,
chasing retreads of a lesser past.
Isn’t this life a seashell to the ear?
Making something out of nothing,
waiting for the signal through the static.
– Palos Verdes, CA