There is a dune-wall with its bags of sand,
Infinite shore, black water, shadows of waves,
The night swims in it, and bones of fish indifferent
To a frigate bird flying the sea sky.
The sun is cut into squares — gray, papery
Floating like little boats snagged in a tide.
A fence now, wired and rusted,
Is there no way out of the dunes?
Footprints in a drift searching for a water well.
There are no blackened trees here looking for a drink,
There is only the silence of sand shifting, opening
Closing — granules like pale hands of a fisher.
A white capped wave winces on a shoreline:
Wet fists shaking on a cold, pebbly sand,
A world moving in a winter —
Flakes are flat and blowing in a wind advice,
Dissolving on a sea surface, yet clawing across
The hardened scape of folded dune and sand.
A frost on the bent grass, a fog sirens
In a sea howl; the whine of wind on
The rigging of breakwater — a distant rote
In barren shoals. A little light is filtering, trailing
A warmth; astounded winter. Into a wind’s tail, into
Littered dunes of snow. There is silence in the cold.
Copyright © 01/24/18 lance sheridan®