Morning is a tearing of the eyelids;
light sifting through porous thoughts
while sea salt sews and smooths each
intentional splinter in the driftwood.


The last effort was a left hand, distant,
asleep and outstretched across the ocean,
still holding itself intently,
ready for some reprise from a dim horizon

while the right hand washes in the currents,
spinning desparately for motion
as kelp floats by,
wading for an unknown shore.

On a distant rocky bed, a lighthouse whirls,
grateful still for every passing tide.

06/25/2007

Posted on 06/26/2007
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