h an icy shore. The coast was
one glance， and a hard wind
soil. Rusty war crosses tipped
essly now， purposefully then，
away from the path she had tracked to the rocks
A forgotten name moves in such fitful waves， engineered
like tumbleweed across the mental floor.
Fringed and furred with frost， the white waves rushed in
and out of each other， and violent crests shot brine into the
air， as if to shuck off excess emotion. At night the funeral
wreath blew down to the sea--long yellows and pinks，
birthday colors--lashed to the slimy black rocks. A dream
smell of salt and acid， like the inside of a mouth， and I was
down in it. Beach houses were battened shut， short pastels
with tom screens， and always on my left， the heave of the
night sea.
Barnacles bit my bare feet and knees， and greasy seaweed
made me drop into tiny pools of kelp. Soft sand in those wet
shapes there. This was the other side of the cemetery that
domiciled on the top of a gnawed cliff.
The baby might have been the least worthy of earth s
materials， lacking hardiness as she did. It lay with its ankles
crossed and its arms spread wide， like one who lives by her
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