Each Day

Saint Seal

Eyes dilated. Bad news related.
      "How do you feel?" she asks, driving us home.
      "Mortal," I say. And going blind.
      "You want to go to the beach?" she asks.
Begin with hugs, then alone, how I heal as a man.
She will wait in the car with heat and good music.

In winter one can walk solitary,
into the prickly touch of mist, of brine.
Bodies of foam the size of buffalo
scuttle across the sand.
      Is this our dishwater,
      bubbles of soap,
      set free?

One eye sees psychedelic nonsense.
The other, fuzzy rings.
      Gulls with haloes
      go about their business
      picking meat
      from belly-up crabs.
Auras glow from driftwood logs 
like our globe warming.

One tan-colored log, approached,

becomes a seal on the sand with bloody punctures,
He rises on front flippers at my approach, 
black nose to the sky, solemn whiskers,
sad eyes, radiating a saintly glimmer.
Nature is cruel. Nature is natural.

 My impossible wish: May you, resplendent seal,      
flop across sand, return to the sea.
My lover waits, would say the same for me.

First published in The Healing Muse