Going

intentional blur
or
how it looks
when the wind's blowing
in my face

Going

Among the things the sea throws up,

let us hunt for the most petrified,

violet claws of crabs,

little skulls of dead fish,

smooth syllables of wood,

small countries of mother-of-pearl;

let us look for what the sea undid

insistently, carelessly,

what it broke up and abandoned,

and left behind for us…

                                                Forget About Me

                                                Pablo Neruda

for Matthew Bailey

Of course I’m looking for you
in the same direction

as you that day you

took to the beach, when you were leaving

that last time

and when you left

I’m remembering it was low tide

and was this strip remember

about thirty or so feet

wide that pulled us

down into the mud and it wasn't far

from there the sand in

the sun, (it's an August day) dried

first when the tide let it

go.  And sometime, not long

after you lifted your foot the marks began

to raise and fill the way whip marks fill

against the mutineer’s shins

they puff with water, what with the pressure

of you squeezed out and then, when
you were entirely

lifted

only it stayed put like a puddle in our rutted driveway.

and I’m looking

at the footprints now and not your leaving

because the water is still and remarkable

and maybe it’s because it’s so calm

the dead reverse

of you sometimes, how funny

I think because this wind is a requirement
of all the salt and sand it can
muster

and it's blowing wet in the rain

and you’ve gone on to be

taken in by it like now this is your only kin
and now this

salty water rising inside the walls

soft walls of your bootprint
is what

calls the sky down, calls whatever’s

on my mind mulling
you over

to float alone

rippleless on top of it all.  And today

                (and by now you are a long, long ways

                               years and years away)

it’s what remains

of a boy I saw when i drove in a traffic queue
by the other day

and maybe it was the way the men
weren't tending

him I knew he was dead

and had just been
found

but their presence
languid almost
equanimous, floors me

makes me right away
remember the day
when, leaving, you turned your face
to me but your eyes
were other earths entirely
like you'd died
already and where was I
when that happened
and couldn't I have saved you
it makes me

say where were they
when he was

dying or even yesterday or even

when he was a little boy once too

the wind the wet and salty wind

all these men: two firetrucks and three

police cars and he’s alone and maybe

a piece of him’s floating somewhere nearby

at the gas station a couple driveway’s back

asking a guy for a buck or two

anything to get him through

or a match

a match for a smoke

and he’s not seen and he can’t be

like I can’t see you after you leave

though I call and call

and I’m on my knees calling

but you’re gone long long gone
and by now it's all

filled in, invisible,

never even been,
your footprint.