then the waves swooning
at the foot of the beach
and the letting-go that lets
a body float when nothing’s left
but surrender,
world without gravity,
grief, the sea’s crescendo
that drowns out everything—
it could happen again.
I could be standing on the dock,
waving to an ocean-liner,
farewell streamers still in the air—
and all around, the vacancies
and dislocations—solids turning
into liquids.
I might open my mouth
to call, and my voice fail,
instead a shrill would start,
a thread tearing
between my teeth no one else
can hear,
some terrible high A—tinny
and relentless.
Come night I’ll dream past
the bridge where
the figure stands in the painting—
and keep walking, hands
clasped to my ears.