Shoreward

In dreams, upon a rocky shoal I walk.
My inner mountebank’s incessant talk

evaporates my hope and steals the salt.

That summer season cures the heart of fault.

So, when my tears are made of water pure,
which can dilute a poison but not cure

the foul corruption draining will from me,

I scan the strand for counter chemistry.

All through the search my doubt assaults the strand,

my senses sharp worn smooth by searing sand.

But slow, the rogue’s discards come back to hand.

Despite the rising surf, I stand. I stand.

The sunset paints and makes the sky a sail,

and on the sea from shore, in light, a trail.