In late summer the sea comes to the city

It isn't yourself you see at the end
Of August but a glimpse of something in

A gutter's standing water. The flat-you,
Swept up in traffic, is an image, looking back.

The rush of drive time like the rush
Of surf, noise fastened to the brain.

The faster the speed—ambulance, squad
Car—the more headway into a boredom

Repetitious as sun that blunts and stuns
Until all seagulls look the same. Generics.

The oddness, being hollowed by not being
Able to notice detail. You can't

Imagine—what is it like to be left
With a solitary thought, uprooted,

Embodiment unmoored, pulled out from
Beneath you by unfathomed undertow?

Every last cell lost. In this way, you
Will learn distance from your memory.

Copyright © 2005 J. C. Todd All rights reserved
from Dogwood
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission