I believe I tend to complicate
all matters, but when I strain
I remember we are one unified
being swimming between the lie
of stars as tides sweep over the city.
Quiet night– at least no one
seems to mind the oak of
my cologne. I can smell
the earth and the rain all around,
the seaweed everywhere.
The tang of time is yellow,
maybe parched, alongside
herbal tea and
I am on
the beach below her, watching clouds,
splintering sky, my eternal life
a big house just waiting to
sell to a surfer. Above, the yellow light
depends on the seasons, the turquoise
narrows the closer it gets to the blue,
coinciding with what looks like a different wave.
James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet who works in film production. His latest chapbooks areCount Seeds With Me (Ethel Zine & Micro-Press, 2022) and Our Past Leaves (Kelsay Books, 2021). Recent poems are in Stirring, Vilas Avenue, and *82 Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. (jamescroaljackson.com)