Honeymoon Island 

Walking slow, collecting seashells  
even though you said: no more seashells, no clinging 
facing west at sunrise, gulls and gannets hover  
plovers, peeps, and petrels pace the best spots 

distinguish watermelon rind from kelp 
discern dead fish from dog leavings   

I’ll paste together an anathema of this week’s high points 
depleted battery of your camera eyes 

feet throbbing at the end of the day 
the keyboard slipping from your lap, 
endless cups of tea gone cold and frosted with lint 

I’ll devise a fool-proof method for telling our future 

grains of sand in my paper coffee cup 
a peculiar curl on the odd-numbered waves 
crack-the-whip cloud shadows on the estuary 
four seashells I gave you 
even though you said: no seashells 

[RK, 5/17/2023]


I Can Do That (after Figure and Ground)

Jennifer Bartlett I bought your coffee table book 
almost two hundred pages of the same 
damn pond and pissing cherub fountain 

wanna-be art ingenue, I said oh yeah 
I can do that, just let me 
find the correct spot
where the light complacently shifts within each hour, day and season 
where I can translate foliage, water, and seclusion  
with a better-than-passable grasp of a different language 
photographing bored shepherds in La Mancha 
sketching Japanese macaques in Yamanouchi 
painting ancient rigged Swedish harbor ships 

I end up shelving you 
with other oversize art books 
think about taking chances, the unknown versus 
food, shelter, friendship, and security 
think about the meaning of Art with a capital A 
think about how to once again
be professional, passable, and profitable 
without the blessing of a Baedeker, passport, or pen pal 

[RK, 5/17/2023]