Storms will tell; they can be trusted.
On the sand the wind and high tide write
bulletins of loss, imperfect shells,
by smooth memorial of high-country trees,
sea-weed, ripped bird, fine razor, ramshorn, cockleshell.
Give us the news say the tall ascetics reading
ten miles of beach over and over; between empty shells, look,
burning from the salt press, stories
of flood: How I abandoned house and home.
Razor: How I slit the throat of sunlight.
Ramshorn: How I butted and danced at the ewe sunlight.
Cockle: How my life sailed away on a black tide.