WEBVTT

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"Low Tide Evening."

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"On the bus from the
West Coast of Ireland,

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a woman stares past rain
pooling on the window,

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clover fields hemmed
in by rough stone.

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The man next to her has fingers
trapped in a botanical book.

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He sleeps.

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She knows that south
of Galway where

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they strayed through terraced
shales and gray-blue limestone

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searching for fossils,
the sea licks pale lichens

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off the rocks.

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And everywhere, the
spirits are hungry.

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So you leave a crust
of bread on your plate.

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A hundred of them could
last for weeks or less.

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If you said a prayer
with your meal,

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the offering might
feed a multitude.

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But then the sea
always asks for more.

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She closes her eyes,
the cool consequence

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of creatures that glided
through ancient sea beds.

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I travel half the world,
and still I feel chased.

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She thinks of dinner with
the man, sawdust floors,

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a mussel split and rusty against
the polished ebony of the bowl,

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its sea smell like
the beach at low tide,

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walking through the inhuman
hour when the world resolves

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into a single blue pane of
stained glass, the goals

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and shadows involved
with one thing only--

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hunger.

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She is suddenly aware
of her desire for him

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across the table, next
to him in the bus.

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But it makes her shiver the
way those shells split apart

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like half black moons that gave
off no light, only shadows.

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And they were legion."

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