Stranding

What came wafting   

down the ditch

by the marsh grass waving   

opened a hole   

in the day through which,   

like a puff of breath,

a ghost fountained up

rising in soft slo-mo,

lost, desolate, no place

left to go.   

Dear bloody

Beirut and its internet cafes

were still smoking

from last night's

"little bombing."   

Such threads, tattered sleeves

blown all over the street

from Emporio Armani.

Husband and wife shot   

dead at the airport checkpoint.

Where else would this lead?

The investiture

of grieving takes all day

to sweep up in the tidal spillage

of plate glass.

What ish my nation,

asked Captain MacMorris

between battles.

But the ditch knows   

just who we are—

and I see its only water

on a stealth raid

of the glimmer

hidden in the reeds.

And when I come close,

little scavenger flashings

and great claws held out rigidly

scuttle back into mud holes

drilling the bank.

Bending down to look,

I could smell the corruption's

gathering, sweetish odor,

its sonar gone haywire

driving it to shore.

What choices are you given,   

what makes you want to swim   

out of your own element?

The demure little ear-holes

and intelligent clear eyes,

the fate from birth sealed   

inside its smile,   

spent flukes and tail   

being gnawed to bone.

The curt unrevealing stare

mirroring back my own.