Are these the only choices? A list
of footnotes, an orderly room, or

the three AM bird and a glut of words,
a feeling that something is due, something

needs doing, a stomach ache, a hunger.
Guilt. And which do I prefer? Strange,

to miss missing. What good does it do
to say: Death is a ebb tide, grief

is a flow, neither has a clear beginning,
or end. Everyone knows it. I could write

lines about the littoral / the literal,
but tonight I’m inclined to turn my nose

up at charity, oblation, alliteration,
despite tiny shells and sea glass

smoothed and left as parting gifts.
So what if I say it? Everyone knows.