LINE DRAWINGS by Weston Cutter

/ / home, Issue 7, Poetry
dear salt dear water scribbling difference between where
I can dryly stand+not dear sea dear shell dear Florida
from your panhandle I'm staring past seagulls flit
+scurrying across sand white as my unsunned torso
at an oil rig miles offshore which must even now be barbing
into deep durk+mank to extract the treasure I'll later
pump a refined version of into minivan's rear flank
so we can trade this sucrostic malleability for the cold
bones of home dear edge dear border dear horizon
which just lays there flat as a that's that voice when
what's done's been done, when there is as the phrase
has it no going back up the road a thousand miles snow
drifts where I'm from on hurt+merciful alike as
it must, like Christ or a bad mechanic true cold
can make no distinction regarding whom it bestows
its shivery gifts upon dear south dear December I'm standing here
because I believe the ocean keeps saying stand there then
like any of us changes its mind, the way the waves gurgle
playing the game of life which is called get everything
then retreat dear boundary dear almost dear exact
location where self ends+beach begins I came here
to witness quietly shifting things: the moment one year
breathes out + the next in, to listen to an I do
transform Ellen's uncle+his love into husband+wife
but my daughter kept shouting so we went outdoors
where she again attempted to put the universe into
her mouth dear littered plastic cup dear cigarette butt
dear fallen palm leaves I watched the you may now kiss the
moment from beyond the church's window as Jo
said da and da and da pointing first at sky then trees
then the cars passing the small white chapel +finally da
pointing at herself, and then me, all of it da and how
can I not hope she's right hope she hope me hope we
never forget how the thin distinguishments of living
are temporary mercies setting us free within flesh
to believe beyond flesh dear wet envelope of ocean
from which the moon slides nightly like the lovest letter dear moment bread
becomes body there must be room within each infinity
for all of us seeking the phonebooth in which our true
selves stand waiting to answer whatever call finally comes.



Issue 7 Contents                                        NEXT: Four Poems by Christopher Kempf