September 21

Will the Waves Die?

Dreaming from one barrier islet to the next,
I wade through wind and sand; crabs, pipers,
and salted grass. Buoyant and weighted
by turns, see beauty as no more real
than pleasure, and joy not even a word
without conscious life. From sorrow to dread
I dream, through flexing blades and blood-
swallowing mouth parts. Crawling roses
contain sand and time. The inlets are cluttered
with limbs and trunks and rotting spines.
Clouds sink through the sand. Elation rises.
What will become of all this when I wake?
I dream from day to night to next. We die.
Then what will wade the grass in its dreams?




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