Tuesday, August 7, 2012
During the day and into the night these people
drive on the beach like it's their highway,
flicking ashes into Quahog half shells teetering on the dash,
night fright grins rend deep shadows
through a speeding window along sand thick with oily tread.
Doubt these people ever see the opal moon touch the tides.
Doubt these people hear the rhythm where dune grasses hold fast
while waves throw themselves on the beach
like ancient men of honor.
When these people finally collapse,
the mighty sea will barely recognize them,
yet ultimately carry their rank water and feeble bones to origins.
They hardly deserve it.
Posted by Mike Misner at 8:38 PM