At the Bottom of the Well, There's an Ocean

Sweet Marie's still sick and not
staying the night so pack the wings,
the ticket stubs, fateful cloud-white
wedding dress into the beggar's trunk
and do what you were made to do:
wait. You may have been raised on 
robbery, but the forked folk tongue
of the singing scribblers is only one
way to say goodbye. In the market
where they're selling spells and flying
powder, I keep finding trap doors,
doors upon doors, a series of so many
doors until I've ventured so far under
the city's maze of sidewalks that I've
come to know what it is to be buried
by what you love. A cool Baja breeze
and I keep trying to remember what
I was looking for when I slipped into
the well's dripping maw, the silence
of the lost, until the conch held up 
to my shell-like ear says, "Shhhhh."