Shore Walk

In a fierce flair of mist 

      a foghorn aches its throat;

The wind-rasped air screams 

      through the quarrel of day,

Scrapes the tip-toed waves 

      Grazes the grey lug-wormed sand,

Brusque-blows tablecloths

      of dust off footpath tables;

A float of gulls flashes 

      white-silver in shock-stalled flight,

Chirping like strained cellos 

      exorcising bass sounds;

Jag-points of hail needle

      ruddy hands and faces;

Objects blur like newsprint 

      in the wrathful shower;

The stones of the wind wall 

      are stronger than our heads;

Our breaths are twisting stems
      freezing into the east;
As wind-rage spreads the day,
      we head home. Hands hinged;
we wrap our morning bodies 

      deeper in the cold wild
            of hot desire.