We throw life away,
sand dollars plump and green as unripe plums
the conk shell with the conk still in it. Bent
beneath sun bristling as an urchin,
we scout for skeletons. Heaps of fingerbones,
the final clutch of coral, and the husks
of conks cluttering this no-man’s sand.
Somewhere in the jungle on the island
across the water, vibrant blossoms are dropping
under slates of rain plating the mountain’s
cloud-corroded crown. Nature’s poetics
balk at immortality.
She hurls the creatures of the sea against
the shore until they shatter.
Her genocides are everywhere you look.
2017
No comments:
Post a Comment