Shoreline
// Doug Bolling
So we find ourselves washing ashore.
The weight of distance,
the parsing of echoes through
a history.
Brush off the silt of prior pages they said.
Tide rising in a froth
of thrusts.
Poor shoreline. Poor water.
0r moon you say.
Tilt. The crooked smile
a thousand miles wide.
Even now the sojourners with
their drenched boots and
desperate umbrellas.
What then such unforgiving
in a mist of mirage.
Yesterday the building of sand castles,
mute pebbles keeping
their secrets.
Where then a calculus by which to count.
Goodbye, goodbye they sang
through the spume.
The rain. The spatterings
of a destiny unsober
written somewhere.