Every seven seconds, we collide on the sand
we gathered when we drifted here – all old cups and papers,
residue, coasters, things to help quit smoking,
a marriage contract pulling back and forth,
ourselves from ourselves.
We lie, buffeted
by the flotsam of our years.
Outside, spring passes,
and we find with some amazement
that the moon still has a pull. The bath tub’s caked
and gummed with days. The window’s started splitting,
letting in more rain.
Somewhere, great tails
dash the seas, and we barely face each other.