by Lance Mazmanian.
To wake in a shipwreck has dimensions to sort. Time is always near, never far. The shore is unknown and has nothing to offer, to anyone. I have walked up and down, back and forward, deep into surf and rocks that themselves seem lost. If only the Celtic Sea again, lights from pubs in rows just ahead, over water. One supposes. More of an idea, of course, salve to the dead beach and even deader wave of survival.
Nothing comes forward from
dark trees all around or
the corpse of dirt, ever on.
End.