Two Poems

Rain and hair turning, turning to snow
blown by the wind, blown where the winds blow
across the ice, into the stunning white
antarctic of the mind: a hall of light
enclosing silence, where the slightest breath
freezes suspense, and sentiment is death.

The green rocks stretch away.
The seaweed clings and rots
around his bit of shade,
shells and broken pots.

The slow drift of the tides
is burying him in time,
brings garbage to his mouth,
brings sludge and tidal slime.

Baby crabs run over
...