Beached

Grain by grain, the beach absorbs me.
Comfortable, I wait, but the process
takes so long my mind projects
a circus tent upon the nearby lighthouse
with acrobatic ladies riding dappled horses
in a circle of fog and mist.

Beached shooting stars turn into moonlight starfish.
A ghostly tall ship gently rocks off shore
as high tide removes the beach’s day-long work
or floats me upward on a million tiny life vests
or pulls me skyward on a tether of seaweed.

I stand up. Lobster front and snow white back.
So much for practice, letting the earth
take me in after death, ready
to redistribute my atoms and molecules.
Ready to view the smokey spirit world,
instead of roasting marshmallows
for s’mores around the fire,
fingers sticky with gooey chocolate.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

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