April 11, 2013

Elegy for a Coastal Heart by Michael Dwayne Smith

Within my jagged coast at Big Sur, you are a forest.

Your sun-shafts and leafy decay
are the scents and fingertips I desire.

You are yellow eyes,
cloth of nightfall, woman with blackened earth,
and in your days my jumble of dreams tumbles to sea.

My soul’s twin dyes your gaze.
My sour kiss turns to sugar on your egret neck.

Sleeper, long dozer under evening’s canopy,
how the solitary rains and birds

believe you to be delirious trees, as I do.

"You shape the air to cradle the heavens," I sing
to rocks and waves.  Moon catcher,

painter of clouds along my abandoned shore,
stalker of the heights of my sorrow,
you steal your green regard from a jeweled ocean.

You awaken in the well of my arms, my dear,
my love, and my flocks of music spread open as wide

as afternoon’s light.  My mellifluous death
is born on the cliff of your eyes of wild ginger.

In your mourning, the lightening-strike fire begins.

Michael Dwayne Smith owns the English-speaking world’s most mysterious name. His apparitions haunt Word Riot, The Cortland Review, decomP, Heavy Feather Review, Monkeybicycle, and other literary houses. He's an editor at Red Fez Literary Magazine and lives in the desert with his wife and rescued animals. Conjure him at http://michaeldwaynesmith.com

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