I row against the littoral,
The literal a bow I cannot steady;
I’ve never been ready:
The gulf so guttural,
It pains me to scream a circle
‘Round the eddy.
She’s an interminable sea:
Her ceaseless rhythm pulverizes me
Until I’m velvet beneath her feet,
Until I’m billions of crystalline dreams.
A tread-upon afterthought,
I fought four decades of demons
To be sought, bloodied-over.
Will there be a war for dirt?
The past has been a flirt with less—
And many wars say so.
Poetry: Why We Were On The Bus