BACK STEP BLUES

              
           nettle in the head, tipple so the spirit pools
           trace misery rules . ridges sleep wreck deep.

           No one returns for Fridays not Insured, left to
           fend . tend shell stock on the beach. Crossings
           nailed ship hatch mortals. 

                                                  Trade school winds,
           tug wharfs near reaching drowners ~ steer ways
           rock boots climb.

           And cast off pleats long purple; speed rope on
           tract scratch wordlings . sound wonders greet.

           Wave pulse . wing flaps ~ clear! dust spirals
           forming ~ peak. 

                                                   – W.W.

    

                 

              

 

  

              
          WAVES OF WILL

             Seawaves do not enter a shore
             out of habit: each wave erodes
          the arrogance of yesterday's maps'
              demanding definitions.
                No wave ever enters
                any shore: the sea is

               quivering within  ̶  and brimming  ̶

            the Earth's bowls whose rims are all cracked

          and keep cracking the more, the more glue

               of precision we apply:

                 change is the only wave

                 that does not itself change

                 but waves of the sea's persistence
            will keep drowning themselves only
         to rise to more and more peaked versions
              of their trembling determined
                 to execute its will 
                 of re-edging the Earth.

            (from "Within The Wind"  © by Brian Chan)