Verdigris, rust, rot--even the sun is cirrhotic, the phosphorescence riding in
uneasily on the agitated, late-summer tide. Skittering shore birds unthread
the fraying hem of the surf, their yellow beaks plucking at festering seaweed,
fists of starfish. The reeds are writing their wills. The wind has given up on
braiding the old white wisps of the salt hay’s hair. There’s no telling when
the weather will turn. No place on earth will let me say--I’m tired to death
of life. Gulls circle overhead, chastising me, the combers rise up, manes
fuming. Only sparrows in rosa rugosa are imploring, pity, have pity, let her go.