The tourists have fled
After an onslaught of wind and fog.
Kelp stretches in tangles,
Strangles the sand.
Seagulls huddle
Outside a seaside condo.
Behind a window,
A woman sits at her table
Playing solitaire.
The ocean is missing its surfers—
It is its own sky,
Dark gray and heavy.
A boy throws a stone at the water.
To the south, a power plant
Sends yellow blooms
Through its tower.
I smell burnt diesel and metal.
A jellyfish has been deposited
At the high tide line.
Here is a body of clear rubber
Etched with blue and purple veins.
This casualty requires no x-rays;
I cup my left hand
And dig a grave.
A man with flexing pole
Pulls a fish from the shallows.
The gold tail flaps onshore
As furious as a puppy’s.
He slides his blade
Through a brain drowning in air.
Now there is blood on the sand
And a man bent over a bucket.
I genuflect at the edge of the continent.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem