Let’s say Heraclitus is right,
we can’t swim the same surf twice—
the way waves soak into the sand,
the patterns left as darker stains that fade
when the tide recedes, never repeat
though if they did, who would notice?
So much like grief, the crashing
& receding, the roar & hush,
cackle of egrets & the terns hungry
for some remnants. You can post
a hurricane flag into the sand
& someone will still come to watch.
Wind-snapped it doesn’t sag.
Tomorrow & tomorrow & tomorrow
desolation & reconstruction. In the distance
something dark bobs along the surface—
detritus or dolphin or else something
inconceivable, nameless, a wobbling
shadow beyond the incoming breakers.