prodigious waves
exhaust themselves
on beachheads
crowned
with obdurate limestone—
as if, in the face
of this bellicose present,
the past
would somehow
capitulate—
it is too hard,
after all the repetition
mockingly called
a journey,
to trace back
and locate the source
of the ache.
Chancing on reflections
half-erased in
shallow tide pools,
it is too hard
for anyone
not to feel displaced.
