On the Beach at Divi Bay, St. Martin
Was melancholy yesterday, watching slate-grey clouds
showering down while I lay in a cozy, one-man cabana.
I was inhabited by fine striations of grief, lamenting a loss,
bewildered and sorrowful at how it happened.
I thought of writing to the soul of Nazim Hikmet,
saying loving a woman was like writing a book–
you must do it every day and not forget it is love’s body
on which you write a page of kisses, turning it over
to smooth its shoulders, rubbing its crease with the blade of your hand.
Then, a sunshower hit and I saw the silvery alphabet of the sea
spell a god’s name on the frothing tail of a page of surf.