by Sean Murphy.
Looking for what? As if concealed treasure exists
outside of books written for little boys
a century or so ago? The thrill of the hunt,
regardless of what might live several inches or less
beneath this constellation of microscopic rocks?
The resigned gesture of a bored senior citizen,
disabused of fantasies and even hope, but still in need
of a project to eat away unoccupied hours?
Or a man content with himself and his accumulation
of wisdom, understanding that the real riches
are neither in pursuit or realization, regarding me with pity
as I take pictures of a tide I neither feel nor hear, head buried
inside invisible grains of electronic white noise.