Angry with You at Bower’s Beach
These curious fists of clay
I found wedged in the mud at low tide.
Or these odd bed-pillows of cement that lie
along the bay’s inlet and protect the homes.
Or the two gulls barking at each other over a piece of rotten
fish while their friends look on—if you were here I’d show you
the snail I picked out of the tidal pool, how it curls its tongue
around to feel if I am crab or bird or bottom of the bay—
but you’re not—so instead I write your name with a mussel so large
the pilots flying to the airbase nearby could land in the C.