plants grow around the edges of each slab

it isn’t raining
but you put on
a raincoat
before you leave.

the harbor is
still today,
the cut in the dock
that allows exits
and entrances,
through it comes sporadic
ocean swell,
made mild
by the jumbled rocks of
a few hundred yards away.

up on the bridge
that crosses
the channel,
you see a
commercial fishing vessel
moving slowly towards
you. a
sea lion
or thrashes
in the water,
birds surrounding it,
and you see
as the commercial fishing vessel,
its hull a light blue,
surrounded by
the pale blue haze
of its diesel engine,
steers directly for
the sea lion.
the sea lion
is made
for the water,
of the water,
and easily
it moves off
before the fishing vessel
can near it.

the man
piloting the boat
makes his money
from killing,
so it makes sense
that he would find
pleasure in it.

it isn’t raining
but my raincoat
is beaded
and soaked dark.
the clouds are low.
it isn’t raining
but this is what it is
to be inside
a cloud.

there are mountains
all around me
but i cannot
see them.

the interior of a new flower, its petals not yet formed, is multitudinous and threadlike.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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