Crow’s Feet

 










































crow’s feet a convict’s arrows marking the eye’s corner and the beach at low tide with its crackle of wings as sea-birds fly their defensive patterns feathered sails on a canvas wind how many crabs made in the image of their carapaced gods hide half-buried in the sand waiting for the waters to return and give them refuge these abandoned shells postage stamps glued in the top right hand corner of a picture post card beach who can decipher this hand writing who can read this lettered mass this mess of stitches where sandpipers have threaded the beach’s eye inscribing dark secrets with the sewing machine needles of their beaks pregnant this noon tide silence this absence of waves where the quahaug lies buried secured by a belly button a lifeline to air and light crow’s feet wrinkling tugging at the beach’s dry skin sand beneath the feet sand between the toes dry sand irritating