The ocean is a junkyard of sheet metal
with headlight eyes and grillwork teeth,
wave after rusted wave dragging hood
emblems and hubcaps to and from the beach
like so many sand dollars and horseshoe crabs.
We salvage antennas for lightning rods
and fish for wallets left in glove compartments,
the occasional stash of something more
valuable that couldn’t be reclaimed in time.
As in any catastrophe there are treasures
to be rolled from the lifeless hulks,
and we are the grave robbers who prefer
the here and now over the hereafter,
driving however we can our own destiny.
For Use in Forecasting
When the perigree tide comes in, it sucks
at the house like a child on a mango
pit cut too generously into the cheek,
slurping at the pilings, and the dachshund
runs from side to side, barking and snarling
at the swirl of waves with their heads cut
of frost – infinite, elderly ladies.
She has never minded not being walked,
reminded us long before the drowning
how not everything is waterproof,
how easy it is for spines to be snapped
like wood or tile, even the teak and cedar,
even the artisanal Tuscan cotto that is
no match for the velocity of rejection,
assurances of short, falsified sight.