At the Edge

Christmas trees tied together to help the wind and water build a dune.

Alive alone at the edge of the sea

everything becomes a line of poetry,

sharp white birds in hovering flight

spearing flashes in the dark swells,

the surf like a mad dog testing

its chain, lunging and held back,

and you at the edge alone with memory,

away from a world driven by desire,

wanting nothing, not lonely, content.

You are. You are not.

You live by incantation.