The wind is from the northeast this early
Evening and not as sharp as it often is,
Having worn out for now its cold
Chisels of water and sand sculpting
All day, as it has every day
For millennia, the North Shore capes
Into sparse studies of ravaged limbs
And torsos envied by Rodin.
I have seen my future there, and yours;
Our backs turned to the workman wind,
Shivers running up from our thin legs
Before we collapse into the gulf
Giving to crabs and quahogs and clams
The scant minerals of our bones.