oh how cold these bones
born inland by the wind on this crippled wave?
hounded by the shadows deep
spit up practically clean
in one moment glistening gone
as the moon dips water drips light
into this half-lit night called day
—
fog rumpled spreads sleek
over this calmed cove with a forgotten name
feel the deep freeze that will not freeze
that will not cease this restless turn toss and gulp
of current unseen and almost unheard
but for these bones of trees kept hidden at sea for centuries
return at night as strains of granite
in the black bed of a sailor’s grave
Pinwheels 