I’ve never trusted the loud surface of things,
the noise beyond the headlines
hijacking my attention.

I turn instead toward the weather inside the weather,
light breaking out of its own shadow,
a chord held longer than it should be,
almost refusing to resolve.

I wait for the hush after the ferry horn
when the harbor keeps breathing anyway.
Kapuśińki walking through Accra dust —
not filing copy, listening.

Noir light slipping through blinds,
everybody marked, nobody simple.
Deep thinking feels like this palm at night —
fronds flaring out of blackness,

structure rising from dark without announcement.
At this age I resist the easy answer.

I grow outward into depth.

Ambition has fallen away.
What remains is home.

St. Simons Island, Georgia

Light names one side.
Shadow names the other.

The corner offers no opinion.

At the line—
no ground given.

What seems to separate
holds.

What seems to block
shows.

Before meaning arrives
blue is already unbroken.

Pooler, Georgia

The arrow points left,
black on yellow,
a direction offered at night.

If I turn, I turn.
If I don’t, I don’t.
Either way the sign stays put,
the night stays quiet—
only this moment needs attention.

New Smyrna Beach, Florida

The door pushes back with a soft groan,
and the air is sugared brine,
half bakery, half tidepool.

Glass lamps shaped like jellyfish hang above,

their glow steady, not quite natural.

The menu glints in chalk dust,

part joke, part warning,

a dare scrawled in sugar.

House Specialties — Today Only:

Seaweed & Salted Caramel Ripple -

kelp flakes tangled into sticky sweetness.

Beetroot & Black Garlic Glazed -

a purple-red bite with a shadow of earth.

Turmeric Pineapple Fire Ring -

golden heat meeting citrus sting.

Lavender Pickle Surprise -

floral calm ambushed by brine.

Sardine & Lemon Zest Cruller -

ocean breeze with a citrus slap.

Charcoal & Hibiscus Swirl -

ash-black dough bleeding crimson bloom.

Avocado & Wasabi Glazed Twist -

creamy green mellow, then the nose-burn.

Rosemary Grapefruit Crunch -

bitter pith under sharp pine needles.

Miso Maple Bar -

savory umami wrapped in tree sugar.

Dandelion Honey Puff -

a meadow fried into golden fluff.

Pumpkin Kimchi Knot -

spicy funk bound in autumn orange.

Cactus Pear & Chili Powder Jelly-Fill -

sweet desert sting at the heart.

And at the end of the counter,

a glass case with a handwritten sign:

Plain donuts — sold out.

Juneau, Alaska

Ghost glove of the cosmos
stuck on the window of eternity
like a lost kite tangled in its knotted tail,
lonely semaphore of the star-drunk night.

What are you doing here?

Signaling a mail truck from Mars?

Chasing rubber checks through Northern Lights?

Playing patty-cake with the void?

Maybe you’re a glove
lost in the subway of eternity,
or the handprint of a thief
caught passing counterfeit stars.

I want to wear you—

shake the galaxies awake,

slap Saturn across its rings,

tickle the black holes

until they spit out light.

But you just hang there,

blue and stubborn,

grinning like eternity’s fool,

saying nothing 
but still mouthing off:

Here I am. Where are you?

Peaks Island, Maine

I like to think of them

finishing up their shift,

punching out of whatever clock

the sun keeps in the sky,

maybe gossiping a little

about the new patch of clover

down by the fence post.

Then, without ceremony,

they curl themselves into the purple

like a guest slipping under

a heavy quilt in an unfamiliar house,

the air full of quiet

and whatever dream bees dream.

Meanwhile, I’m here at the window,

pretending to work,

watching the day close shop—

and the bees are safe sleeping in the thistle.

Peaks Island, Maine

It was a peaceful neighborhood

until the signs started speaking—

first they warned us,

then they laughed.

Now a child runs forever—

a small joke from the underworld.

But even the joke feels holy

when the light hits right—

when the mind forgets itself

and floats like clouds

through the blue dome

of a sticker someone placed

with quiet mischief.

The sign says SLOW.

The sign says CHILDREN.

But it’s the skull that knows.

Knows the world slows down

only after.

Knows how warning

is a privilege

disguised as concern.

Is it still running—

that figure on the sign,

some version of us,

once wind-stung,

barefoot, unafraid?

We wave,

as if it matters.

I saw him once—

third-grade me, maybe,

invisible cape, skinned knees,

halfway to Mars

and all the way lost in joy.

He’s still out there,

dodging traffic

and dreaming about outer space,

or cotton candy,

or something better.

The sign still holds

the shape of a child

leaning into the forever

no one meant to promise.

We keep walking.

We obey.

We forget.

But the child,

skull full of clouds,

keeps running
into the deep,

unspoken now.

Peaks Island, Maine

Show me your original face before you were born.

                     			—Zen Koan

I walked in

because I thought I could leave

myself behind.

The trees didn’t care.

The leaves kept falling—

with or without me.

I stood by the water

and saw a face.

Not mine.

Just shape and light—

no owner.

We want to believe

in something that stays.

But even stillness

moves

if you sit long enough.

Belief, doubt—

they’re just names.

What’s real doesn’t speak.

It doesn’t need to.

I turned back

and left nothing behind.

Nothing was ever mine

to begin with.

Peaks Island, Maine