I stand on that brooding shore,

the ghost of you beside me like a phantom limb that aches but cannot be soothed.

I can never say your reasons were ignoble.

I can never say I didn't see it coming, like cold tidal waves at night.

But I can say that I will look often behind me

at our footprints in the sand

and mourn the moment I continued along the water's edge

and you headed for the hills.

The castles we built were swallowed by the sea

in small, wet bites.

Once, I had imagined they would turn to stone

and stand for a thousand summers.

They were were always destined for the foam.

I understand now why the gulls cry into the wind.

Touch starvation, they call it,

because you grow so hungry you'd bite at anything.

Seek out handshakes, casual embraces,

awkward drunken pawing, just

touch me touch me touch me.

I will do anything.

I will do anything.

I will do anything.

The owls call out at dawn--

a long hollow sound that rouses me.

This smooth sweet stranger lies asleep.

I touch his shoulder softly.

I fear I will never be full.

There is a slick grey smear down my sternum

like a seal stranded ashore

all wet black eyes and oily, lichened skin

cold weight between aching breasts.

Like particles entangled

with a universe between them

but still feeling the push and pull of the other.

That is what we are.

A chemical reaction. A kinetic energy. A rather simple

mathematical formula.

I dream of wrapping my hand around this grief.

I want to pluck it from my chest

feeling the sudden relief of its removal.

I would kiss it softly, fondly--

for it has been a long friend of mine--

and then I would slip it into the sea.

If ever there was a homeland for sorrow, it is the sea.

I would watch the dark shape of the thing disappear

into the cold waters.

A seal sliding between the waves.

A piece of jasper sinking into sand.

I would be sorry to see it go.

We are entangled, you and I,

as much as any two particles of matter ever could be.

When I have drowned our shared grief,

will you breathe again too?

Sand, stone, sea, sky.

All the grey things of the world now contain us.

We are so heavy.

Go when the plum-colored salal berries are tight with flavor.

Go when the ocean wind is high and the sun is low.

Go when your heart beats hollow and your bones ache with sorrow.

There is a moon-curved pullout. Park your car.

Approach the low stone wall, right from center.

On your tip-toes, peer over the edge to find

          three stone steps and a narrow track

          plunging downward into scrub.

Follow it. Hop the wall. Other travelers will stare. Go anyway.

The track wriggles down and to the right,

disappears into a narrow canyon of salal bushes

higher than your head.

It is a fairy's labyrinth--

          pull the berries as you go,

          pop them into your mouth,

          suck the warm sweet juices.

They will taste like July in Oregon.

The track emerges from the bushes suddenly,

and you will be on the edge of a precipice.

The wind will whip at you, pull you with chilled fingers.

The sea will roar at you from hundreds of feet below. 

Their tantrums are deafening. Your hollow heart will race.

Go anyway.

Pick your way along--it is okay to crouch low,

holding fast to low-growing shrubs.

In this place, fear is a gift.

There will be a small tree, and a scramble down an eroding slope.

Be careful! It is precarious.

The drop to the right is beautiful but fatal. 

Look upon the savage arch of the sea cave below.

You could not survive there. 

The track ends at a flat promontory, all brown dirt and pocked boulders. 

Before you will be nothing but sky and sea and eternity and infinity.

You will feel small and gigantic simultaneously. 

You will discover that fear is the salt of life.

You will find that here, in the wild and dangerous spaces of the world,

          on the other side of walls,

          down sketchy narrow paths,

          beyond your own skin,

          outside of the bones that weigh you down,

is freedom--

absolute, terrifying, perfect, dangerous

freedom.

It was always here. It is always here.

You can tuck it inside of yourself and take it back to the city with you.

Don't forget about it.

Don't let it be stolen.

It is the greatest thing you will ever have.

It is the greatest thing you could ever be.

A bear is easy to draw.

He is shaped something like

          a large, hairy pig

                    rooting stiffly on all fours.

          a short-muzzled dog

                    in not much of a hurry.

I once saw a black bear stripped of his clothing,

skull gone missing.

He looked for all the world like 

          a boiled man

                    belly-down on the grass.

His hand was large and plump, 

his knee brought up to his side

the way I bring my knee up to my side

when I sleep.

It did not seem right 

          to look upon his naked body.

It did not seem right 

          to violate the privacy of his death.

A bear is easy to draw.

Draw him wrapped in thick brown fur.

Draw him standing, looking to the horizon.

Draw him strong.

Draw him with respect.

A bear is neither pig, nor dog, nor disguised human.

A bear is 

          the breath of the forest, 

          the knuckle of the mountain,

          the lonely wandering thought 

                    of some long-forgotten god.