Oregon’s oldest tree

yesterday, a storm. 
today’s bay of my 
brief belonging is less tossed, 
though sea’s surface still breaks. i do not know
the composure of this sea, if it is 
riotous in its pubescence or toddling 
on new legs or sighing towards inevitable
slumber. water breaks 
white on rocks exposed by retreating 
tide. water breaks, 
a sound like blood, rafting 
through our canyon’d body.

a human body,
comprised of 60% water. 
like the sea, a body breaks. our bodies, vessels 
that cradle our breaking. some
of us are pulverized, little piles of sand 
left in our breaking wake. others are shattered, wind
chiming as the breeze breaks through. i know 
a man who’s breaking is round and slow, his
is a trombone gait when he bends 
through each breaking day. this morning 
i heard a woman laugh from the wooden deck 
of a steel-hulled boat. the silence between
each laugh; a breach, a gap for capsizing. 
airports and train stations fill 
with a jangling breaking, the small desire
of pocket change. people empty 
pockets of broken tokens, fill 
vending machines. torn bags 
yawn as chewing jaws seek 
a sating sweetness.

a woman i know with xylophone bones, 
she carries her broken pieces in
a backpack. sometimes 
from her breaking bag comes the sound 
of a man, snoring in a tent just a few yards 
away. she shifts her bag and then 
a sound, like a bear padding softly 
into camp. and as morning breaks 
through the threadbare edge of night, she gathers
her pieces and shoulders her backpack and she
climbs. the only sound, her 
thundering heart.