Winter again, beach fire lit, ocean mist,
moonlight raking stranded starfish in,
nature’s hint — save something,
salvage spring. Kneel on cold sand,
iced damp, assess the earth, the sick.
Breathe deep, trim ragged edges
of igneous heart, slice off conscience,
at least the darkened bits. Somehow,
avoid amputation of the ending.
He surges at me, spews
an armada of reasons
to reject climate change,
forget carbon, love cars,
trucks, planes. Lays praise
on factories, damns Earth First,
the jerks, mere pessimists,
eager to hate. A loud knock,
the door, then two. I open it
a crack, have time to say,
the Pacific's here to see you.
“There is a little dead child in the pond --
one that has dreamed itself to death.”
I begin to small against my lost life,
believe it time to fish at sundown,
mingle with black moths
whirled white in graying light.
Trust rod, line, fly to provide
cutthroat stopped mid-gasp
in tall grass. Slide a bright blade
along red bellies as growing dusk
covers bad memories stuck
in pooled blood. Wash the dead
in deep river, fling entrails, hearts
into night. Try to forget why
the hopeless call this place
a burial ground for shadows.