I AM NOT A WRITER
Rooster squeaks
when he means to crow.
Old lava rock
collapses to red clay,
slippery when wet.
The bed warms
in the night.
A sharp knife slices
flesh like fruit,
no distinction.
Food cooks over heat.
Ink dries in the pen.
Birds sing
often in sunshine
less in rain.
Solid earth
too fluid
for language.
I write because I live
with the smallest part.
God has so many names.
Island breath
speaks faint galaxies
of color, laces and prints.
Words enter a gate
with no fences.
Left and right are justified.
Something must be said.
Indiscretions of a restless
fountain pen—ink moves
across days and nights.
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