Landscapes with Elephant Seals and Umbrellas
       

In the water solitary creatures,
the elephant seals gather close on land
to mate and molt. They slough their skin,

then off they go again into the sea
alone. Upon the sand one wonders
why they huddle together so.

In the city I once saw a herd
of quick umbrellas open all at once—
all the owners purposely not touching—

and scuttle down the street en masse,
the black nylon and the taupe nylon
and all the rest bumped and bounced

off each other in the rain, like the rain
bounding off umbrellas, like molecules.
Like molecules every contact was followed,

as every contact must be, by estrangement.
There were once a man and woman
whose ribs collided—

neither one was ever seen again.
When the seals accidentally touch they bellow
and fuss, they throw their heads to the sky,

they wave and writhe and moan
the other away until again each feels
itself owner of the shoreline.

To either side of the rows they make
lined up along each other there is a mile
of empty beach. Only a child makes use of it.

What kind of creature dares to stretch itself,
naked and warm-skinned, where no one else
has been? Only a child. Only a brilliant child.

A man I met, he was on the bus and humming
to himself, turned to me and said You look familiar.
Between his ribs and arm, a closed umbrella

licked his clothes with rain. He moved
a little closer to make a place for another.
I tell you, the ride was short!

There is a family entering the beach,
verily against the rules. There is a ranger,
she is kind, who moves to shoo them off.

Down the road there is a dune where scores
of nudes may paint themselves with sun.
Rarely, one of them brushes another.

Copyright © 2010 C.J. Sage All rights reserved
from The San Simeon Zebras
Salmon Poetry
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission