Reformation

sand cascades from the cathedral

a shard of green glass taxes 

the thumb, flesh has no parallel

so close to the ocean, possibly save

the seaweed pods that pop so crunchy 

charred fences return 

to float off, these are hard days  

for soft structures

the circle surrounding the steeple

fills slavishly with foam

one must laugh theologically

watching wafting water

pull the work and treasure 

out beyond outstretched arm 

this collapse, this laborious loss

is in harmony with buoyant souls

re-forming to skim 

over the weight 

again, and again the

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for Poets and Storytellers United: joy in chaos