The Scoured Coast
Charred raddled oak, bark peeled by lightning where we once
walked. This poem a gate rusted shut between us, a path
choked with ripgut grass bristling through dune and scree.
Handed off, hands empty where I reach and touch as if
touch became theory and I untouchable, as if concepts of
touch sufficed and warmed the bitter air.
Two cups, one broken, one empty, this poem a thirst I can’t
say or slake through brine and sharp sand between us, sea full
of dark shapes rolling under breakers, near land’s edge, near
tidepool and blown hollowed oak on the edge of a colder season.