Salt shore,
where the seaweed grows,
and the tide kneads life
like dough.
Evening gulls’
squawking fades and falters,
and the gulping crows
revise their last oration.
Little mussels nestle
into curves of soft
green mud,
borrowing space
from some stones.
And a lobster laughs
and a cormorant
follows his fish
alone.
***
City, scrape, truck.
Sick surplus.
Rush return to restless wait.
Back again in nexus.
This desert, flesh
rehearsing sermons,
pockmarked shield of mirrors.
Inside, the roaring
tide is pounding, pulling,
pounding at the future.
Unless…
Unless…
Remember something
calming, mussels,
still.