Fresh breezes luff the cedars
over & above the ticking guckiness: a beach
bursting with angry ernes, tacit terns, and hungry gulls.
Each of us hopes to cope with the poppling tide,
almost as if we have a choice.
Having found our odyssey wanting, we know the way
we’ve come, if not the anyway back.
Not enough where to keep us there, anyway.
Having opted not to disbelieve, we remake the world
in front of a world left over.
So before we’ve eventually left, we’ve arrived
where we already are.
Becoming our own ghosts, we don’t learn much
as we grow older, but we suspect a lot.
Wise enough to know far worse than this,
we still get the chance to show
our inexperience. And the whole idea
is to die as late as possible.
Meanwhile, over there, endearing beyond desire,
fear or despair, sirens decorate the beckoning rocks,
wasting their lives waiting for sailors
instead of offering swimming lessons to kids.
With dusk, their breasts will start to glow
like lanterns wishing they were fireflies.
