Ebb

In my good night's
sleep high tide
of my dearest rancor turns.

Nary a moon
shied me any glint of it.
Then this little shift, a

fish switched its
dorsal ripple opposite &
slack took over. Black water,

blood flavor, settles off
shouldering stone. Reliefs
of ribbed sand rise.

Out to sea slides
flood temperament; it tows
some wrack along as some

lapses to drain behind:
dainty placations kinked in matted
sargassum, mineral chimes.

Copyright © 2009 Martha Zweig All rights reserved
from Southern Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission