Postcard with Tomorrow’s Phobia
(Mendocino Cliff, J. Ambry)
What passes for the sky is a burial at sea.
Below that, trees shoulder the horizon,
a stone poses as a thought too grey to lift.
Wind curves the long blades of grass
back to earth. The cliff’s sheer
devotion to the waves is crumbling.
The malignant flowers.
The estuary mud.
How the rain hurried us
inside. Night leading
to night. Our antlers
on the floor. Our furred
feet chained to luck,
then the rearview.
Be with me.
Not to remember,
but to dismember.