Beachcombing

 

Beachcombing

 

A freak wave smashed the gunnels,

swamped Tokio’s funnels

broadside on,

scuppering containers that sat upon

the deck — all were lost.

 

Well — a bit of hyperbole

to whet a knife-edge of the mind,

cut the purse, slit the throat,

because as you know,

that ship stayed afloat,

but scattered five million plastic pieces

over the farthest reaches

of the ocean floor.

You want more?

 

In Cornwall, far from deserts

of the Middle East,

find children combing the sandy beach,

among the fronds of weed —

all bladderwrack and dabberlock,

destructive swash

that grinds the rock —

to seek and locate that rarest block:

a black and dappled octopus.

 

And you may think this strange —

to so highly prize

a beast deranged,

who secretes about him toxic ink,

obfuscates, and brings to the brink

of his salted beak,

his seasoned maw,

any raw flesh his eight tentacles

can lay their sticky suckers on,

reaching far and long.

 

Think on, my braves:

what dangers lurk in caverns black?

What terrors fly across dun skies?

 

The precision those fireworks lack

doesn't mean they won't let fly —

and in fever-dreams will you not see

tickertape parades of lost debris,

floating at last upon the sea —

a jumbled mass that claims to be

the cut-offs of some baggage claim.

 

So that’s it, really.

Speak not of blame,

or hearts to rest with Caesar there.

Just run your comb through the hair

of our sandy beaches,

to find the glass beads

that served as eyes of teddy bears.