This is the end
of the world. The wild west, but not the frontier.
The old monster is roaring on the beach again—
kids run along the front in shirtsleeves, chasing
his fury, one great dark wave after another.
Oh rain, wash them clean.
The Norwegian tourists bask in a thousand ways
of getting wet. The windows of the Marine Hotel
are caked with guano. Maybe the rain will do the trick.
The seagulls swerve in the air stream.
The Spice of Bengal dims its lights, its one customer
sated. Time to wander into night. What we want
lies broken on the shore, what we can’t have
stays black on the horizon;
the moon of the zebra crossing
flashing for no one.