SECRET SHORELINE
Here is another poem I have chosen to repost. It was one of those that were lost by the algorithm.
Let your hand linger there, just above my waistline, while you guide me amongst the mismatched shapes of misshapen boulders. Fallen Redwoods lay their bodies across Old Kirk Creek so we may cross there. Guide me to the secret waiting shoreline. The river of music is like the sound starlight might make when it strikes the moon, a sound I would never have heard without you.
Ooh. I love the imagery of “The river of music is like the sound starlight might make when it strikes the moon,” I immediately pictured what the might look and sound like. Wonderful.
"The sound that starlight makes when it hits the moon" — that's the impossible synesthesia that proves the guide is necessary. The poem does something precise: it names the body first (hand at the waist, fallen trees to cross) before it names the unreachable. The route to the mystical is always through the physical. You knew that and didn't explain it.