My footprints softly follow me across
The moonlight – blacknesses that fleck the flow
Of silver sand. The tortured waters toss
As I did in my bed. Lonely winds blow
In restless searches, matching mine. I lie
In sandy silence here, watching breakers groan.
They leap in silvered ecstasy, then die
Upon the shore. The night-birds laugh, then moan.
My blood is brine, this body is of sand,
My heart pounds with the waves. My dying cry’s
A gull’s. I reach out with a shaking hand,
Twine fingers with the tide. I close my eyes.
The haunted wanderer has found her rest.
The prodigal weeps on her father’s breast.
- Lamar Review
Houston 1963-64