All memories return to the ocean.
The calm and the surge, low
tide and high tide. Some will
again wash home upon
the shore broken and beaten,
bits of sea glass but more
like the lost lobster trap,
crab shells or the back-
bone of a fish picked clean.
Others stay in the deep
night darkness still un-
discovered pressed against
the ocean’s floor.
With the lighthouse dark, every-
thing crashes. I am but a name
of a ship sunk off the coast
where locals point to the spot
on the horizon and remember
until even they disappear
into the astringent salt-water.