Ancestors

Fellow, hear me as glass cracks beneath my feet. I’m on the drinks of all dead poets. I’m eggshells in a warm bath. I pace a line —

Fellow,
hear me as glass cracks beneath my feet. I’m
on the drinks of all dead poets. I’m eggshells in a warm bath. I
pace a line —

are you with me?

I’m the plastic bag in the utmost pine. I was in tow,
en route to the sea.
Where the vast will lick our toes, yours unending,
a lighthouse on a distant crest
— the sun sets.

Not what we’ve come for, not calendar worthy, but
the water changes as it does and you, me, and everything
meet in the middle in white.

A soft rake up the beach to remove the day.