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This poem is taken from PN Review 142, Volume 28 Number 2, November - December 2001.

From the Rock Pool Robert Minhinnick

1

One night an arm stretched into my room.
It was the lighthouse beam
scattering a handful of salt.

The next night the hand brought
a child's bones
burning like driftwood with a small white flame.

The third night it set down
my own biography:
thirteen white pages in a white book:

On the first page of that book I wrote:
what could a rock pool ever be
but a bridge that serves the selves?



2

Last week at the airport I met the sea in Terminal 1.
She was drinking finnish coffee and reading the dead sea scrolls.
On one ankle was a tattoo of australia
while greenland was inked in blue over her breast.
...


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