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.