My cabin is small and has sat two spots,
up on the road years ago
now the ocean where I rise.
Connected by the grunts and smarts
of rolling it down the meadow to the sea,
the squeak of flowers beneath the slippery, fast-wanting logs
with me inside, knowing this, in gladness rising from good sleep
in the tiny loft above the kitchen
over meals made, books read
drinks drunk, skunk sunk below the red pentameter of sky
the cove of tongue, the probing sea.
When storms come, they roll my head and toss my heart
and boats break on the beach, but in my little cabin
I am dry and yearning for love.