There’s too much of him.
His sundogs chase me across the sky
and scatter the seagulls.
I wield him like crystal
in the ark of my hands.
He comes right through me
like a light at the end of my tunnel
opening the ways,
spilling the rays
all over my broken sidewalk.
Even from here, he showers me
with sparks—
crashing against my rocks
melting them in the heat,
blowing glass swans
from the plasma of my thoughts.
He fills up all my bays
and overflows the storm locks.
He’s my safe harbor,
the weight of waves on sand—
and the houseboat that’s never
tethered to dry land.
© Psyche Marks 2017