| |
________________________
Out from sea, I shuffle
for the first time on dry land
since the flutter of angels.
In fetal contortion, I knelt
in a dingy swag of ocean,
wished on threads of anemone
dreamt of my emergence,
of how the sun might someday
gild these cold wet bones.
In my listless sleep, not sun
nor kelp, nor sad human song
could arouse me in my still
yet the frothy lip of sea
creeps beneath me, unsure
if it will spit or suck
and the how’s of my retrieval
are but a secret buried in
the stretch of white dunes
swelling within the contour
of my shadow, which unveils nothing
but this mask of dismay.
© 2002 Richard C. Williams
|
