Rob Carney

 

On the coast, you might spot
a minor griffin,

but your fury
will mistake it for a seagull.

Your anger makes beach fires
forbidden.

There are orcas,
but they’ll go unseen.

Driftwood knows it’s a floating letter—
I was there, now here,

then somewhere next—
but your hurt won’t read it.

And the rest is hazy, uncertain,
so I’ll just say this:

I have to eat fish skins too,
’til I’m full.

But not the bones.
They’re too much work.