Postcards from the Edge


The sea here's an ocean.
In Illinois it's cornstalk-green
and rises in fibrous tides,

Momma said I used to eat dirt.
But, friend, the farmer's
soil is fine, dark honey.
This strand's a sandy spit.

No job, don't ask.
I'll survive on air! It's rich,
too fecund and fishy and...


At Del Rey's Hostel Café.

My coffee cup's a shell, pearlized.
I hold it to my ear and see
the waitress blanch. She
swabs my table twice. Sea says,
"Ain't it nice out?" here
on the coast of nowhere.

I tip my smile. Tonight she'll dream
with my seed in her. We'll wrap
like dune vines in the neon spill, motel
damp with salt spray. The waves
whisper for children now
and I feel older. Always,

© 1982 John Goss