Pat Seman
I am making no money
weaving no lies as exposed
now as this bare balcony spring sun striping
the raw concrete
just riding the days from dawn till dusk I check
the weather what the waves bring with them the changing
complexion of a sky frayed with rain now washed
white and empty
the sea
as breadwinner bringing in
the debris of a long journey smooth-sculpted stones the narrow
skulls of sheep shawls of weed bottles
and battered tin cans
cast overboard
churning
continually
turning everything
over on its
uneasy bed
bending my back forcing my body into
the rhythm of a day I turn the sodden clods
nails grained with earth
skin salt-bitten chafed and scored
by the bare spikes of winter I’m stripped
pruned back to the green stem.