Fresh graves in black sand

I lie beached, still,
prepare to gather hope,
in sun as if death
could not surprise me, like kelp ashore to dry.

I guard a deep tidepool,
plan at night to save flesh
in bright shells, fling back
those which are purple. I will give them new life.
No tide can reach me here
or so I believe.
But night surf, without hands,
swirls in effortless,
scoops fresh graves in black sand.


Timothy Pilgrim