Almost no light and so cold.
There next to me on the bus, that woman who lives
in the group home who dreams
of angels sleeping
between her teeth. She tell me
they have fallen out.
My babies! She cries, covering her mouth. I couldn’t save them!!
She said something like that,
the woman at the Good Will today:
her mother in law dying, then the brother,
then she herself diagnosed with a tumor—
benign, thank god—then her child diagnosed with diabetes,
and her hours cut, so she lost her health benefits,
and all of this just since August,
and the summer now over,
and she never got to the beach this year,
and now winter is coming soon,
and the daylight keeps getting shorter.
No solid surfaces for life to cling to.
No sanctuary, no refuge. Small things
eaten by the large because it is not safe to stay
in one place; because creation can not happen
in one place only; because the weather, wind, and water
collude to make us go—
Barracuda; jacks; sailfish; marlin; albacore.
Another name for a pod of sharks = a shiver.
Species intermingled, like Asbury Park,
all that respiration and concrete,
rock formations for people,
hiding in all the crevices,
and much of life simply moderate,
not much doing, equable and even,
the young especially unsatisfied by this,
the far off dying coral just too far off, an hypothesis at best:
pierce me, pierce me, let this fierce life take me someplace else.
The bodies of the dead accrue to the cities’
formation, millions over millennia;
every hour, every day, some coral polyps
perish and others are born,
those two old stories,
one way in, one way out,
the sea the same, essentially,
and our souls soldered by what?