On our walk from road to shore, I tried to revisit
arguments not worth remembering, and the wind
outside the woods only emphasized the silence
growing within. Naturally I thought of other beaches,
other loves. What good are they to me now?
What good those distant shores? Marriages may seem
fruitless, or futile; how can the divorces that follow
be any more so? You can spot the old growth
by the twisted shapes centuries have made of them,
and the moss that must keep those shapes warm.
Later, we put ourselves to bed with a bottle of Gallo,
and come morning the Gideon’s Bible was a blur.
It’s impossible to live by scripture without failing,
while the sea changes constantly, and never at all.
