Here, where waves are sold to tourists,
Ever stronger, ever more sure than
I, who look back, now, most of the time.
She stretches, cat-like, knowing as she does
All time and objects are hers. How am I? I
Lie a little, watching a gull sail off,
Mention the easy sunrise, hiding a limp
Or cough or skip of the heart, or plan for
Shedding of things no longer holding me,
Things my hands once understood, or
Things I knew to say, sing, throw, mold, be.
Here is a shell for Beloved. It's not chipped,
I'll take it to her. I'm a passageway now,
Really a conduit, a path, a test, a mirror.
The young one looks back, smiling.
Yes, I have evidence. I've done well.