Saturday, September 11, 2010


[wrote this poem three years ago. just re-found it. so...]


When the ocean gasped and fled
we were left with many dead

That Wednesday (Thursday in Japan)
when the sea just up and ran
the fishermen in fallen hulls
had one or two good raking days
of harvest. Bloated gulls
were everywhere and gorged
on mundane bass and trout
and monstrous, deep trench horrors,
eye-stalks poking out
of yellow, running beaks.

What had been beach
is now just sandy path between
two dirt worlds.
No spray, no salt, no scene
but earthy, constant fixity.

And you won't sing for me.

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