More Poems

by Adam Sass

The crest of foam
Tossed up to race backward
Is your surging likeness, you think,
But you change your mind.

The weather is turning
But someone is still out there,
Their bobbing head hid
Behind swells, then found again,
A black ball rolling in a trough.

And it means something,
And it means nothing.

Touch bottom:
A sudden sharp crackle of armored life,
And your foot comes away bloody.
This is not a place to stand
It is much better looked at
Through a pane of glass.

At night, floating on your back,
Your ears fill with the
Tapping and tumble
Of shell upon stone,
Of sand in the making,
And your eyes fill with the
Cold light of stars,
And seek out the moon,
Where tides are made.
And you think,
As above, so below.

And it means something,
And it means nothing.

Cuanto cuesta? How much?
Are they even for sale, these little objects
Laid out in the sand?
The boy shrugs. Again, insistent:
Cuanto cuesta?
Now you must have one.
But he is already looking past you, out to sea.
If they ever had a price, he does not care.