Robert Bogan                        Austin, Texas       PREVIOUS PAGE


 Pass up plastic, shell and glass.  Heft tells worth:
 no wooden scrap too small if it has mass.

 Exotic crates, dry weed- and barnacle-bearded.
 Yucatan trunks, wave twisted, lamppost big.

 Abandoned briquettes combed from a dune's mane
 with cautious claw (beware the careless longneck
 lip that lurks under sand to bite, not kiss!)

 Sand-smoothed fragments jigsawed by foreign storms,
 long rolled in Gulf chop then dashed like blind dice
 to my beach, wide-scattered shards from the same bole.

 A pyre rises on the strand.  What kiting gulls
 deride, the heron scans with thoughful eye.

 Tonight, rip sharp match flashes and spark hope.
 Watch the salt wind burn holes of light in the dark.    ©  2011  Robert Bogan