The Head Will Continue To Sing
SONNET FOR ZOE
“Why was the ocean angry at us?,”
you ask, fingering the pebbled break
that punctures the sea wall. “Why?,” you fuss.
A pocked slab, concrete flakes,
and the powdery bone-smell of mishap
roughen thought: pitched by the sea,
big bad wolfing whitecaps
hurl rocks and winter’s debris.
Now August’s a liquid sheet, a strait
of haze dampening a dug-up lawn
where worms inch, as workmen estimate
the redress of walls with twine, drawn
taunt to vibrate in the burn-off of mist.
“Why?” Your smallness, the right to persist.