At the shore break thought
swirls of island foam about
vast distance as whorled wooden
ship scraps laden with the history
of gull calls
abaft and dazed dots weather
grey billow pilings anchored
by slabs, slate green iron plate,
into smoky seas.
Canyon scars deep in the night-mind
crater marks of meteoric orgin,
bolides of ice and organic compound
lost to the race of men forever
in rich grits of sand
stand toe-to-toe bubbles of rhapsody
scrubbing the scoured beach
clean of sound
bleached covs bobbing
in surf broth.
Sunday does not return.
Monday is a slice of melon moon
razoring silence through blue haze
sere sea steam rising
of rusted sunlight voices
out-of-reach beaches ground down
into scales of broken glass
old slivers of feet
call, call again
on grey, green-grey
the cold, cold
closure of the shore.