Their last day on the cay
he cleared the beach path of palm fronds
just as he'd done on the first.
With machete, he scythed
from dawn past fierce, noon sun
making pieces of everything in his way.
A milk gallon jug of cistern water
and energy bars pushed him along.
Sea waves lapped to him, unheard,
and pretty birds squeaked and popped.
Only the shallow cove, swimming by his side,
and those tissues of clear sky
mocked his crazy oblivion.
Only the heat and his hacking energy,
making empty everything
low growing and tenacious,
kept him from scything himself.
He had to sweat away his mainland life,
a jobless entwining,
a wife cutting loose,
a path unclear once again.
No comments:
Post a Comment