I can unpack the many shells
the sea discarded at my feet,
the single starfish found too late,
marooned upon the high, white beach.
You can imagine pelicans,
buoyant as children's paper skiffs;
lights, mysterious in dusk,
pulsating where land vanishes.
But even if I told you, you would not
believe how far it is, out to the rim
of form and sense, beyond the reefs
where habit lives.
Unpacking
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103051100536
Свидетельство о публикации №103051100536
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