Those Washed By the Sea
I am the first to tumble gray
through the ruddy pallor, the unmistakable
grin with its long, delicate tongue
forked veins I accept rounded,
dull into me.
Gulls, terns, unpredictable ravens.
Exchange your writhing catch,
your half-digested insects, your feathers,
for a word or two on your beauty
and your praiseworthy, insistent pecking
this dawn from my palm.
Of the newborn suns I’ve known
pristine as newly-awakened kisses
and slow memories of four-handed pianoing,
the one catching this fiery black sea crest
will not fade like a clown’s joy
nor a tree’s steady reflection,
for I am two steps behind it
and cannot outstretch my arms.
I cannot see myself in the erupting rebirth
so how can it pass on to the next?
How can it pass into disappeared friends
like a wind-struck flag
like certainty?
Blood crusts the tattered rags
dawn gives me to cleanse it.
Dried, all fluids gray and leave echoing rings.
Those washed by the sea
are no exception.
-published by Seven Circles Press
