Monday, September 5, 2011
Our steps stretch
from entire tree
to entire tree,
sent to sea,
by waves and beached
amid the clatter
of driftwood elbows and ribs, sloughed in deep beds,
At last, the tent pitched in this dark,
on hard-to-find sand.
Which acre of perfect round stones
most purrs and most clacks in the laps of the tide?
And of what ground should our fire be built on the sky?
Seeing none of this, really, until morning,
the ghosts of whole forests tumbled and bleached
at our backs on the heaps.
Seaward, an ominous solid
ticks and thrums
beneath the lunar blood-thorn
the day's light to sea.