From this angle, the geese look like they’re making
one straight line. The same grey borzoi
flickers against the shoreline, saint of New England
candlewick. Another dog moves like a white
spirit of the water. His red ball is caught
because it’s thrown. Then the soot goes up.
The tide abandons what it leaves, I think, being
as usual wrong. I pick up two clamshells, one
with a perfect hole in it, a translucent
green crab, and a bleached lobster claw
that’s lost its thumb. How will I say goodbye now.