Despite getting over this flu’s fever—and managing to stay awake all day!—crazy periods of dizziness keep washing over me like waves. This makes discovering yet another poem almost more problematic than letting a raging fever power Creation’s bark toward shore.
The Final Week of this 100-poem marathon would seem to demand a kick, but marathoners know kicks can’t usually be summoned after all that. Gutting it to the line and over remains a worthy goal. Perhaps a joyous sprint of several paces? It will have to do.
every beach day I turned over
rocks, peered into tidal pools,
walked wet sands while my head
defined my body's right angle.
shells, creatures, treasure—call them
by their true name: hopes. I planned
no plans, no marine aquarium, no
extensively labeled collection.
"to espy" my only goal, one not easily
satisfied. three score, more, yet still
my mind scours its sands searching
for treasures. when one's former
brilliance dims, when nothing
can be espied, nothing plucked
even momentarily, no triumph
exclaimed—this little death brings
disproportionate chill. Would
to have not known this stage
when audiences depart quietly,
embarrassed for the actor who
cannot seem to remember his lines.
94/100
100 poems in 100 days
