Limantour
       

Scrim of trees
over the salt marsh

like something out
of Hokusai.

A wood-blocked
scene. So tiresome,

the comparison
of one thing

to another.
But it can't be stopped—

even the close-by
sound of beating wings

begets the trolley
from a hundred

years ago
running along

the sand ridge,
exhausting itself

among the ghosts
in Victorian gear:

long skirts
and stupid hats. Or,

her old family scattering
into a game of statues

on a similarly fogged
Pacific beach. The contortions.

Their blood now—
her blood—

as thin as anyone's.
We say waves crash

bui: they also wheel.
Nostalgia annihilates

the styrofoam trash
blown along the shore

but she likes the torn
shape of it here.

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Copyright © 2015 Rebecca Black All rights reserved
from Crazyhorse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission