In a whole life that goes
on beyond us, sandpipers
reckless and impeccable
skim the mist in a careless geometry
above the burbling clams and the Dionysian
feast of the gulls on the rust-red husks of crabs.
Each consecrated carapace
pulverized and luminous
makes a boardwalk of the shattered, a
glimmering carpet on which we shine:
Our lives, neither tragic nor mundane. Our bones entangled.
Our hearts persistent. The faith of kites above us.
The kitschy-kitschy of sea glass. Corpus
green with nutrients and dissolution.
tawdry, sea songs, life at the edge of the world. The cobalt
outline of tide from the window’s ledge.
The swing where I cried when grief finally broke. The
sand-song of mopeds and dogs on the salt-dank air.
It is here always where I recall the imperative.
Where I re-learn the lesson of my divine
irrelevance. Where I receive full clemency, where there is
only fervor for my blemished soul, where there is room for nothing
but the grand helpless lungs of the sea, the sandpipers
free on the brine of its draft, all things found and all forgotten.