seaside: driftwood fragments soft with age and salt
stinking of death,
tiny deaths crabs and minnows take,
salt from so much death, so many bones from bone machines,
from bone daddy’s and bone weeks
do not notice shells once alive
as a shell could be,
are now forgotten coffins
of some creatures lunch, lunch, lunch.
sea whispers death under the sane salty sun,
our white sands, our shell games,
our beaten bags and bones. Oh sea, whisper,
and come to me like the lover
poet's make of you,
tell me how to die,
give me the secrets of all those deaths
you cover over, you home-wrecker,
you bottle taker. you baby maker.
we bathe in your hunger bag, your
belly of sour brine,
tease our skin out
to be next to you.
is it on purpose?
to lull us and woo us,
make us love you,
and make love to you all afternoon long?
is it belly of salt?
what waits for our skin
and hair and nails
is the tumbling down of many shells
dying a little more each time,
the sun and heat, and the insect moon
take bits and bits
and leave nothing but
sand knowledge,
our moth hearts searching and seeking
lost in the bright hot flash
along the beach, beach, beach.
