And when my mind does
Wander upon my episode with the
Sun
—whisper, whisper: “undone,
undone.”
Too much Shakespeare has
Left me poetic.
And yet I hate what he
Creates, Romeo and Juliet,
A funny fate.
(I laughed, the
play that brought many
to tears)
Love in three days
When it takes many
Years?

And the washing
Of the gray
Shores upon
My feet has left me sinking
Deeper in my depressing thoughts
That skip from poem to poet to
Author to artist and back in
Dizzying circles.
(they weave about me as
purposefully and uniquely as
the mark of birth upon a piece
of pale skin)

The shores still lick my feet
With salty winds and cooling
Waters, the book grasped
Tightly in my hand
As sun dismembers
Slightly more relevant
Thoughts.
—the tanned
cancerous skin that
I inhabit yearns
To continue the path upon the
Famously tragic minds almost
So insane as to make sense—
I want sense

Will my portrait be as cryptic
As he? Will he smile at my
Writing as I wish I
Could for his—his mind so
Serious in what was
Best left to boring independents.

“God, god—
art thou above—or
below?”
Somehow, sometimes
(Catholics would
scorn me)
Lucifer seemed
A revolutionary—
Piece of mind, “No, I will not.”
To hell he will rot.
“God, god art thou
not fair?”

—the shores still tingle with
cooling satisfaction on (my skin).
The beach a peaceful haven
For wandering thoughts
(and, once upon a dreary minute,
I recall the poem I
Wrote condemning such beauty
To a painful agony
Of truth)

“Truth! Truth!”
Oh—
(sure, why not?)
Open my mind
Dear fateful day when the ocean
Becomes my torment.

“But not yet,
not yet.”

Your back was burned beyond
Repair—the sun
A healthy share of pain to
Lend (sorry, sorry), but your
Moans did disturb to the
Point where it did perturb me
In my gracious nature.

And as I stand upon
The salivating shore,
The foams of the
Waters washing
Tiny kernels of
Sand upon my
Feet; lost to my vision with the
Passing of three waves.
My back is now toward you
(no I do not mock with my
coppery skin, gleaming a
tanned perfection)
No,
I stare beyond at what point I
Would land if I could blink myself
Across this ocean—
The shores of England?, Ireland?,
France?
What new, tempting thoughts
Await me upon their
Banks?,
What new responses
To literature will I
Discover, my
Feet covered
With salty waves
Depositing sand at my feet
In recompense for the visit.

“And will, if I will it, this book
(grasped in my hand) if thrown
into the foaming ocean
(hunger marks it as a beast, licking
always upon every shore it meets)—
Will this book discover a greater
Purpose on a greater shore in
A pair of greater hands?”

I decipher you worthlessly,
And for that I am
Endlessly sorry.

I do not wish to
Divulge your
Contents to superior
Minds
I do not wish to
Think upon them,
I wish to read you and love
You for what you are
—and if not love, hate.
(For you bored me
and made each moment
of reading oppressive)

“Truth! Truth!”
I have given you,
But no kind words
Mark this utterance
Except my own, which
Are worth nothing to me.
(I am human, and

with humanity comes
the vaguely distinct
appreciation of
flattery)

Flatter me.
Lie.
If you do not like,
Try.
(I speak truth, but do not
seek it)
—that is an ocean who’s
shores I do not wish to visit.

I am a female,
The weaker sex,
With which words are
Her weapons
—her protection,
as wit her armor,
and knowledge
will make fools of the
men to which
offend her.

I still stand, my feet a
Little bit deeper in the
Shore (of literature),
Endless books grasped
In my hands
(I mentioned their
hunger once upon a poet’s
Scheming)

Bring me a smile
So that I may wear
It like an awkward
Half-moon upon my
Face.
When it fades, so
Does my humanity

—those books
—those books
—in quarters,
and in dimes
—I flung it toward the
sea
—I did, I did.
—Oh, reader, find it,
and proceed to read, to read
—then fling it in the sea,
and when it floats safely back
—then, and then, and
then (yet again) will it be
new to me.

Be the pair of greater hands,
Mark this treasure and let
The sands of the ocean recall
It’s beauty, it’s endless beauty.
I live for beauty.