Berryman: December: The Shore
       

Each day I come to the end of this pier,
to the tarry fragrance of rotting planks
and shellfish, to kick the sand carried here
by my shoes into the Atlantic.
I love that sound-not like the ocean
frying rocks on the beach-but that fizz,
manmade, sand peppering water. The motion
of ships in the drizzle
is huge and slow. Burdened with ore
they seem asleep. I hate my life. Sweating or
sleepless, unwilling
to car this painless existence:
this is the air browned by the steel mill
at the end of the tongue. This is death.

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Copyright © 2019 Rustin Larson All rights reserved
from Howling Enigma
Conestoga Zen Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission