At twilight, sand, sea, and driftwood open
like a workshop for carpenters. Wind and rain
have chiseled snake hair on logs thrown
against a dune. Near ocean’s edge are birds
carved–beaks broken, bright eyes whipped
and polished. Forever, they gaze seaward,
heads cocked (one to the left, the other to the right)
waiting, (bristled feathers wood-wet)
for mother tide to teach them how to fly.
Like Durer, I will cut my own Apocalypse
from wood drifting, shifting here and shape
horsemen (armor swirled, meticulous),
or whittle something simple: perhaps a cup
for tea. I warm my hands, prepare, and
feel a pulse in the heart of my palm.
Salt air and starlight sting. I find the lap
of a log, silken, grooved for rest and
my bench of block, knife and rasp—
tools required to take a piece of driftwood,
whittle it, fragile as a wishbone. I close my eyes
and whisper one desire beneath the moon.