Pilings

 

Feeling ground-down I tried
To claw into any sort of light.
I couldn’t impress myself
Each time and in the off
Hours it made little sense
To seek the faintest chance
Of lightning forming

The same impression twice.
I’d sought out space
Despite being told
No one can travel past
The speed of light:
Just one more
Depressing limitation.

In seeking to count
The progressions I’d found
A row of pilings
Twisted from beginnings
Into somewhat familiar
Shapes, mussels still
Attached though long

Since dead.  If I looked
Back there was nothing
But my sandy tread,
And I knew better
Than to grasp those
Empty shells and leave
Blood-prints from here on in.