Debris, all over the strand,
driftwood after a sea storm,
poured out of the horizon’s frown,
our tossed up losses, our mess from the unknown.
She enjoys jumping in and out of this wood web,
sniffing salt on rugged damp bark
while the sea roar fills the picture
with its wide open throat.
It could be anything seen from above,
the tatters of us all, the gristle of our souls,
many a Lear’s new rages and regrets,
released from dragonish clouds to make us strut and fret.
I gaze, blow a thin whistle in her direction,
asking to move forward, lose sight of her
for a moment in this Guernica of wood,
then she reappears, a long stick in her mouth on top
of a mountain of sand, she is dangling it from side to side
as if it were a trophy I am due to recognize.
All this, like anything, could be a dream,
its sense scattered and lost in what is seen.
Another flash in the puzzle,
in the scattering of our transit,
what we can remember and forget, put in a life’s file,
what we can't but accept, in the meanwhile.