Like scarves that have run and bled
all down the beach, rows of them
under the violent sun
where the dog noses its way
down the beach, between the rows
of the massive stranding.
The dog noses its way,
its ears quiver as if it hears
the mass of them, stranded,
sighing for the great wave that doesn’t come.
When its ears quiver, does it hear
their longing for the luminous dark—
a great sigh for the wave that doesn’t come.
Scent of brine in the rising heat: lives ebb,
longing for the luminous dark
all afternoon. The dog sleeps, lulled
by the scent of brine. In the rising heat, lives ebb
like scarves that have run and bled.
All afternoon the dog sleeps, lulled,
under the violent sun.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 23, Issue 2.
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