[Camachee]

my first
was a lover
who taught
french
in a garden
arguing existence
but enjoying
now

[Kay Syrah]

littoral translations
written in imperfect
reflections of time
and tides,
he rode the highs
and the lows,
but it took close
to forty years
to understand

the rise and lapse of
seas seek only
their own
imprimatur upon
the lines of impression
of a wilderness
without promise
beached upon
the come and go
of restless sands,
and wishing water.

[Kay Syrah]

love me back, baby
echoes in concentric rings
seeking the center in a bitter
cup of morning brew,
sent by the rumble
of the train far below
the place where I now live,
And the window glass shudders
love me back baby, as the
lorry races by on the flyover
sending its reverberation
convergeant with the whine
of rubber on concrete,
The lift of coffee
dark and sugared to my lips,
interrupting the elemental shiver
that repeats in the jets
of arrival or departure
shaking and salting me
with the dark detritus
that lingers from the fuel burn,
and oils my dust with the idea
of leaving for just anywhere.
The motion of emotion lifts
then the beat of the bus
rocks the stop with
expectation, and I
think the harmony
is telling me
something's, gotta give.