You are the surf that rises to the bright crest of the day, the shell road at low tide and the moon above the bay.
We pulled on the handle And went down to live with the crabs, Burrowing in four-feet deep To crusty water, the smell Of ocean death and pincher, Taste of ancestors crowding darkness, The message of being sunk Foundering us in the brine. I have…
Some want to swim To the horizon. Some want to float Near the shore. Waves carry, caress, Batter, prolong, Nourish, destroy.
The downed pines Heavy and mute In their destruction Are the path now, No stretch of sand, No line of seaweed Even.
I found Pluto on the beach. It nestled in seaweed clumps, Its loneliness revealed In its austere singularity Amidst the surf,
There you are deep inside, curved legs against shell, visible life in death brought to shore.