Ambient

 Dear Hemingway,

(San Francisco - Point Lobos, 20 Sept 2019)

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These days are met with bedlam

a malady of the spirit

ubiquitous, fluid form 

I wake to nothing

no joy to be found or known

I cradle my soul, fill her with the night's stars,

not understanding

loss, unwilling to delegate pain

only allowing these eyes to tell of the
weight she carries.

I venture to where the lands end, and I see an old man 
standing on the cliffs,
fishing.  As I observe him, I wonder
whether or not he is struggling
with a marlin of his own.  

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