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.
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