Thursday, November 10, 2005


Rock Dogs

Along the beach are sculpted rocks,
They're stacked like the stones of Easter Island lording over the breeze .

The breeze cools my skin and the sun turns it brown.

the cell phone ring is muffed by the crash of the ocean.

I am the momentary ugly faces
pungent seaweed rushes in and out of my nose.

I jones for cup of coffee;
I find that yellow railroad station serving lahtees and orange cinnamon buns.

I can't shake an image as I settle in,
an image of rocks perched as a Maltese with a butch hair cut.

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