Sieve

Don't begin with artifice

Tell me something real

The pain in your wrist

Your belly full of tea

The empty cup

The silence of the room

Thoughts that do not come

Your mind a sieve

until a pebble 

comes to rest

IV

I

an amnesiac haze clouds morning thoughts

the same way a gray marine layer shrouds

the beach before burning off by mid-afternoon.

Past and Future become rearranged into 

a manner that refutes present ideas on

the nature of time. 

II

100 miles

A thousand paths

Each step a journey 

Roads without end

A circular path 

III

The mind wakes slower then the body

at morning. 

IV

Vacant Sea