poem no. 2)
claude anshin thomas

I

don't

know

when it

stopped,

this

scratching

inside

my skin,

or if

it indeed

is just

resting --

I wander

around

town streets

paved

with their

emptiness,

a shared

kinship -

I sit under

A street lamp,

looking

into

a pothole,

committing

an act

of concentration,

I

touch

the aching

of 1,000

years

of loss,

confronted

by

wide

eyes

disappearing

into

the surf,

slipping beneath

the

sea,

held

in its

depths

far from

my

view,

never to be

touched

again

in loving

embrace

except

in

day

dreams

and

nightmares,

I

cry -

if only

I

had been

a stronger

swimmer.