A Lesson in Geography Poem by Tom Clark

Failure of sympathy buries you
in the sand, like the body of
a person at the beach
in your imagination, where
the deer still come down to the water
to utter their spontaneous cries
into the oncoming headlights
of the approaching wave of evening,
that time when your dreams run wild
dogs back into the caves in the rocks
out of fright, and deference
to the way you feel. Baby if you don't
understand I'm sorry it's time,
and I guess I'm sorry too as
and if it's too late to provide
sand castles with
bridges across their moats. Wimps
do that, break
down
into particulate matter, like grains
of sand in the bucket
of a child who remains in chains.
The life of it is in the details,
anyway. That away lies the equator.
Sacrifice a goat when you cross.