On this windswept shore,
the beach of lost relics—
scattered with ropes of kelp,
green sea glass and black cinders,
one wet dog following
a barefoot toddler.

The sea tries all its usual tricks—
swells that shift green in the sunlight,
quicksilver tongues foaming at the shore,
even a retreat to improbable depths,
but it’s too cold to go in.

In a hollow of sand
I find a seagull, chest ripped open
as if the burden of a heart
was too great.

The borders between us
are less marked than these,
shifting perilously underfoot,
no watcher in the rusted lighthouse
to warn me
of your arrival.