Happen
The sight repeats
itself, dividing before
me like a worm
or the dust of a crushed mollusk.
The sight repeats in splashes
of my attempts
to dispel it again
or return to the fact of my eyes
inscribed on the light
taken in by the wet sand.
Like little bats of the imagination,
this whole shore of wind
propels a row of blue flags
on the wire fence put up
along the rapidly eroding bluff.
We never shied away
from sleep. Or kindness.
When I saw you outside of the changing rooms
we nearly avoided saying anything.
We only spoke in words of comfort,
blind and well-articulated, lived
like piping plovers making homes
again and again within the different grasses.
The sight appears again because I need it to,
because the seasons are dearer to me
than bare time, propelled alone as it is
by the pure fact
that this will never happen again.