Got an eyeful of SF at night from across the Bay, with fog tickling
the towers. The camera refused to resolve the image, so … haiku below.
Messy jewelry box br>
Trailing gems in the water, br>
Snagging feathered veils.
Moving is still in my mind. I’ll soak up the beauties here while I can.
Caveat emptor: tasteless humor.
It just smacked me in the frontal lobe that “ruination” is one
transposition away from “urination.”
My professional trajectory suddenly makes a lot more sense.
“Nacre” sounds like an erotic euphemism. A leisurely beachcombing near ancient oyster beds led me to realize that. In fact, it went further, and prompted a poem.
The meter, for those who care, is represented visually as follows:
Oh the shine! My fingers ache
To touch that sweet thing:
Silken colors, slippery,
As soft as me there;
Curves that arc in gentle swoons
Around the body
Once awash in holy calm
Within that temple,
Wrapping scarves of pearl
Around its softness:
Breathing water, eating sand,
Casing empty, body gone,
It fills my eyes now:
Oyster shell, long empty, laps
The flowing water.