i don't feel like i have to write
this poem because you saw it jotted 
on my notepad.

the poem happened
three decades ago but,

for the record, you were the one
who said to marry you tomorrow

& i would but we don't
have any china/

you haven't seen me in december  

have i told
you that you take the anonymity 
out of me? 

did you know that sandpipers 
collect stones to give
their partners,
cull the shoreline for the right one?

you see the stones in my pockets--
in my backpack, on my desk.

the bottom of the sink
& in the parking lot where 
god's been replaced with a red neon sign. 

not all stones can be poems,
but the best ones are.

i pulled up a map of
Tacoma Washington on google earth 
to try & remember 

where the stones in the bowl
on your counter are from.

dropped a pin & said it's where
we'll land when the hand rooting 
through the bowl of clouds picks us up.

will you set me down in a city 
neither of us can remember the name of?

will you write an address on your
forearm? 

will you cull the shore
with me?

teach the pacific ocean our names?