Fingerprints
Evening
bleeds red
Into the skin the pores of the sky
Night's
head is bent towards the slow wash of the sea
Her feet moving over the gravel
The Channel
bills the land
The tide turns a shingled hand over the
Blue chin and black stubble of the sand
The salt
grass old thorny bushes
and
sudden crimson flowers
of
the dunes
Then damp open scrub
Houses built
here
Dark peat and kindle backed up
Driftwood burningacridspitting
In all our
homes
The heavy animal sound of the ocean's rollers
smothers
us.
If I press
with my fingers in the dark
They shall leave no mark.
The 2River View, 3_1 (Fall 1998)