Grief
The Beach Poems, Day Eight

The boat sinks with all
on board. Yangtze,

Indus, Mississippi, Flint—
no matter

the river. Or the lone
lover slips

into a muddy stream
at first light

while you sit on the bank
of his bed.

Then grief rises, the same
everywhere.

The soul comes up
for air,

your soul, cranks a wet
haunch down

on sand and rocks,
on your face,

plants a flag, and
claims this

place, new and pristine,
as its own.