Like Symbols, the Lines

Dreams are not sorry.

The gray-green light on the stones,

premonition of rain.

Imagine a tsunami coming for you,

loss of breath to the dangerous

attractor. This too is regret,

a swallow, all of you

gone, in an instant, what you could have been

just the pale shadow lingering

on the sand. You are your own

holy ghost now, burning mysteriously

out on the black sea.