Elegy at Low Tide

Who knows the impossible sadness

of morning? The tide

going out

without a goodbye,

an empty boat grounded—somebody

must own it—

the rolling howl of wild dogs.

Maybe a bird can try,

somehow sparrow

the absence which holds

a field. You tell me why the scenery

wakes up abandoned, how grief

grows a view. I have

my walking to do, my daily search

for submarines and kindness.