Isabella Turns Eight


When Isabella blinks,


no longer eight,


or remembers


the sand fiddler's drinks


on the shore of the great


Pacific Ocean


where quick touch-and-go


wiped our foot sockets young,


washing them


naked as an angel's toe


with its cold tongue—


our paths


zigzagging in laughter,


wet footed and ferried




from waves which after-


wards keep God's key buried


in our hearts,


fluttering and stupefied


until your little brassiere pops


to show


my love for you so deep inside—


teardrops couldn't, teardrops