Piedras
Poems by Adam Mackie
Piedras Out on the spit, piedras pile smooth and flat: Red, gray, white, gray and white piedras pile smooth and flat. Out on the spit, with bare feet toes, no sand between, we tangle seaweed in our hooks over smooth and flat piedras.
Landscape Morning layers layering light into layers year after year, news lying in layers, there, on the floor. The landscape lays and lies: The abrading light in the night: Tears.
The Seesaw Barge Anchor, now, inside this boat. Chains coil, linking, linking upon linking, dissonant thinking, the sea’s singing the windy-gray waters pushing the communal flight, the black-tipped winging, our destination’s persistent pouring back from bay into inlet away from coves stitched tightly within stitching, no more ledge landing and hair/eye blinding: “The call, the call, it’s going to rain, the call.” Hunger on the docks, the gulls, voices carry, harmonize above the seesaw barge.
“. . . wooden door . . . leading down . . . ” With outstretched, groping hands, Feeling for a door, knowing there must be a door, Yet they never find it . . . –Sam Shoemaker, “So I Stay Near the Door”
Door, wooden door, open door, beside a cactus beside a wall beside a step leading down, leaving the wheel, the spokes, the axle.
Closer/Fuller Rain falling onto the beach stretching along with the sea tide lapping pulling the sea’s skirt pushing itself back & forth
overhead on & on, endless with the sand & driftwood moonlight dancing illuminating closer/fuller more time passes.
Tides & Skies Everything disappears, exits: Tides & skies eventually evaporate, everything exits, everything disappears, even an eagle disappears entering & exiting eyesight, it exits, & disappears.
Human Human: A cold stone racing along a cottered crank fastened tight to a bracket inserted at the base.
Roads My mind goes down roads to the time Stein said, Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose. A dear friend of mine once evoked the name Eros, the Greek god of love, the fletcher, as we sung Eros’ name as chorus over & over, what seemed eternal, the act of love arose inside a line: The name of Eros and his pointed shafts. I arose. He arose. We gestured bows on a road with invisible arrows.