Anesthesia

Soft as a marsh, the wave—
its homeland drifting far into the open sea,
should be heading for the shoulder of the horizon
the stars will soon erase.

Yet, drawn to the polishing
of an aura like yours, dusted with grains of sand,
it turns its back on the wind drunk with sunset
and rushes toward the shore.

Like the long scream of a half-moon
that the morning glow will sweep away,
the sun, swollen by evening light, cries out
that this is not the way.

The wave shuts out even the clouds
that once headed with it toward the old tree of home,
and cages the sun—now gaunt with worry—
on an island where its scolding can be put to sleep.

Jealous of the gulls beating their wings
on your shadow,
it rears itself like an enraged train
and rams toward the shore.

Whether it knows or not the weight
of its one-way devotion,
you mingle with other shadows,
building sandcastles.

losslovefree verse

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