Each morning, I sit on the beach.
The surf fisher never catches a thing;
of the reel,
Waves washing in and
At sea a boatsman brings in his nets
Hand over hand over hand.
As the sand grows over my toes and the
Salt spray preserves me.
Later, that same day, I work
At the local dry cleaners,
Suits washing in across the counter
And dresses splashing over the edge:
I erase stains without water,
Clothes ready to be tainted again
By the cycle of business deals,
The salt grains of daily sweat.