The sea eats glass
Til glass itself
In repose, reflection
Far in the swathe
Of polished rip
Arm upraised
Decrying buoyancy
I am fastly turning
There are thousands
Gulled in lines
Eating waffle cones
On the esplanade
Loudly squawking
Laved in oil
(Or made filthy by)
As if the fatted ungulate
In herb and festal truss
Prepared itself for sacrifice
The sea swallows them up
Returns most
Turns some
Into nubs of glass
Lost in gristling sands
Small and bright as jellyfish
Dying in the oil and ice-cream air
Now, far out to sea
I start dissolving
The plane trees turn
Disillusioned leaves
Quite early this year
The Dutch elm bug is on his holidays
While we sneak out
To the dregs of seaside towns
A breeze, gull-hollow in the mouth
Of a tipped over flagon
The day has that wormed-through look
Of driftwood and premature age
The gulls flock
In that senescent, rough drawn game
Of wings unfolding
In hearts and crosses
Someone poured out petrol on the sea
Bursting when the sinking sun, dissolved
In match-flare quickness
Dragged down with waning hostility, a smoking sky
As if no-one, in the semi-dark, could still be inflamed
I know you know the stars are embers
There is a parenthesis somewhere here
Time will only take you so far
From the edge we see the remnant light
Why – I don’t know why
That died in self-effacement
A shoreline’s length ago
We slow, walking into water
Lapping salt, uncertain how to speak
Arched words, in the face
Of an amniotic resistance
To advancing life
Remember how the Madonna grieved
When her child rose again
Counting days like seagulls
Above a garbage shore
On your holiday towel the stains
Of eggs and leavened bread
Sister what’s-your-name
Can you spare a coin for love?
You have a gravid face
Breaking open sunshine
Just a quiet deception
Something fragrant in your mouth
Crushed sweet seeds, a flower
An azure sea, a breeze below
The moon when summer
Turns, more or less, as the hand
Before your smile
Bent as it repudiates
God does not write home
With platitudes and dreads
Homilies about these dismal
Seaside coloured days
Sandwiches quite stale
How the scavengers are blessed
When they steal and beg
Other frail beatitudes from your disregard
The deck chairs bellows semaphores
In candy-coloured cyphers
A breath as light as new-made saints
On convalescent afternoons