Here, take a last look at the beach,where shadows of 
abandoned things
stretch out to greet
the sea: the terminus of every street,
our hair and clothes tinged with
its salty, stinging bleach.
Then seal up the last boxes with tape
(then seal up the last boxes with tape)
and clear the porch of what remains.
Mason jars and pliers,
salt water and innocent desire:
Who will run the starfish hospital?
My youth exposes its frail roots,
like the bald and flailed earth beneath
my tattered shoes
and it's clear what was cultivated here:
a childhood marked by un-abstracted fear.
And its not my fault things got this way,
(its not my fault things got this way)
the water is liberal with its blame.
Mason jars and pliers,
salt water and an innocent desire:
Who will run the starfish hospital
next season in the cradle
of this wilting crop of real estate?
Well hush now, sister, soothe the cat. She's not been 
caged before.
If the sickness here still shadows us we'll find our 
way back home,
where our ghosts will check for lumps out of habit 
until the sea claims what its owed.