Graduation

The last ocean is not

an ocean at all

but a playground

abandoned

to the weather

which has not been

good for years. Half-

submerged swings

and a set of rings

with blooms of rust,

a whisper from a passing

bus, scattering of needles

at obvious angles,

insistent wind. The school

of children in their bright

jackets and shiny shoes

is gone, and the reefs

succumbed

to the heat. A world

of shifting tides, pure

and futile description,

the act itself of saying

what’s there and more

importantly what once was.

A graduating class with their fine

black robes. A field of fire.

A tattoo in black ink

on a wrist and then

smudged, effaced.

Don’t talk about

the bombs, which, even now,

fail to explode. The noiseless

sturgeon-like cars, the terrible

moon. Instead, lie down

in this salt and remember

how the sea used to be–

so clear, so calm,

so deep.