Under the Piers (excerpt)

Under the Piers cropped2

 

 

          Planks
lead down
the embankment

on the beach,
eventually
end or submerge

under pocked heaps
of tonight
dark, wet sand.

          Footsteps
knock on
low and muted

wood chimes
descended
hollowly:

the roof-beams
over excavations
of ant-like crabs

tirelessly relaying
scaffolding into the sea—
for destruction or building.

          Footsteps
trail
a ghosting

shuffle of snare,
rack of beads dragged,
sand raked

on shattered eardrum.
O boneyard
of cobbled instruments,

obliquely disturbed
in the late night
activity:

an orchestration
and choreography
to an inexorable music.

          Footsteps
onto sand
irresolutely squish,

trying as if not even
to touch
the ground.

Then a chatter of voices
splashes
overhead,

ripples a-crest
the edge
of piers. Words spit down:

          “Heyyy
all you faggots!
Come out tonight?!”

          Caught unawares—
a cat clenched in pursuit—
a twist sends up the spine;

and, pinned
by a blind, hostile regard,
one vacillates,

a prattling sort of
novice
actor,

the rafters creaking and crackling
with jeers for the
unsalvageable show.

And there is not even a show
to laugh at.
But the hahaha-ing

wends its course,
leading itself along
to its amusements.

          Recomposed,
for what that is;
still dangling from

a chain swaying:
the bare, steely, searching hook
and the butchered carcass both—

Under the piers
we
gather!

 

End of excerpt.