coffee shop writings

How dare you, they said.
But we are lost and
drifting, like paper straw
wrappings, left behind, we replied.
We are a language no one understands
carefully copied by painters
who hate our God.

We drink all night to write one line.

After thirty minutes riding due south,
with the current, wind off the
ocean, now receiving,
a full moon raises words
in my throat like a pregnant poem.
Separately, tourists ask
into my sudden shiny eyes
Where is the hole
behind their backs.

In between, we self-medicate with music.

God used to live in the sky,
before it moved far away.
In water, more dear for distance.
We count in numbers no one knows
Under street lights shaped like palms.

A green canvas hat,
sprouting flowers
two strangers meeting
over a phone -
flower stickers and blue plastic,
bus shaped
trail of wonder.

We are made of clay, but also of time