Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Beach (2002)

Stepping towards the horizon,
we are made of delicate stone -
(cracking, trailing rubble,
see how it fuses with the sand...)
see how the cliffs above us
are somehow mammoth,
somehow miniature,
like this life we invent.

These shadows stray behind us,
flicker with our step;
(did I ever tell you about the holes
that run through my body -
the wind speaks through them)
and later when sand grows dark
with the day collapsing,
the tide no longer paints its contrasts
upon this beach, this vast intersection.

We meet here, where we are furthest
from home, while the gulls
return to earth for the first time
in who knows how long;
(how long since we saw the earth?
that is, an earth free to roam
without these tight, chafing clothes
which cut off circulation...)
so many meetings to be witnessed,
as each moment brushes memory.

These meetings somehow brief,
forever incomplete;
there is a blindness in walking where
there are no buildings, no roads,
like crossing this deserted beach -
this too, in its own way, is a building,
forging up towards the limits
of the day and of night -
(see how the cloudless vault
still keeps the outside out,
and we forget that we live here.)

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