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
         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.