Seven Days a Week
I scratch symbols out of a matted beard.
Fingertips as smooth as wave-worn pebbles
rattle on an invisible shoreline,
the sound is a kind of speech
a language that only spume and spray understand.
Seven days a week I listen;
rarely does the water translate
any intelligible meaning.
Nevertheless images rise
like dead half-eaten fish.
I pick at the bones and wish
for more impossible things.
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