6-23-24
From a Beach Chair
Swells of waves, swells of belly sustained by fifty years nearly on this earth,
clearly we are well into the second half of this play, the climax may
perhaps have already happened or not. Galaxies of freckles blurring
into pools deepening and widening on skin no longer taut and smooth.
But I own these hands, these eyes, this mouth, everything I've made and seen
and said is mine to hold and carry should I choose. The sea eats everything
and leaves some of what it doesn't on shore. The more time passes, the more
and more and more. The less and less of each specific shell. A spell
for disappearing: count the swells as they crash to shore and shrink
the sand to ever smaller grains. All your gains in a half-worn whelk, its whorl
intact. All your loss in the huge moon erupting over the edge of the world.