Homeless Valentine

Aren't even the little sticks and stones

The fallen branches of the palm

I use to weave my creaking hut

Borrowed from some beach or loaned

To me from some terrible storm

The flotsam from which I string

Together the thought of a home
And plant myself inside its filtered

Light a door open to the sea

In the radical half of life

I decided it was only the magic

Of discovery that appealed to me

My little hut the tip of an iceburg

Over the depths I'd yet to see