Feeling useless and unloved, he opted
to walk the beach, dig feet deep into sand,
try to sense each grain. He wondered what led
him always here: edge where water and land
and air meld like old kings or ancient priests
gathering for a final truce or prayer.
He studied how moon and stars blurred to triste
sequins across sea’s ebony layers,
contemplated what actions might just once
relieve pain, quash fear, calm rampant desire
in being’s every cell. Heart’s
reluctance
to chance. That lost voice
again. He was tired.
Listing from dull tide, he slumped, lurched upright,
strode back toward his heedless cabin’s glazed lights.
Roger Armbrust
April 19,
2013
