We look back like a forest’s lion
That looks at a passerby, bored
Except statistic against its time
That grew away to a past space.
Lot went down hill as angel said.
His wife looked back needlessly.
Home is a hole that turned sea,
Her past is sea of common salt .
The lion and Mrs.Lot are bored
Of passer-by and the old holes.
Both are bored of looking back,
Their angels too bored to warn.
The lion has now entered hole.
Mrs.Lot is already pillar of salt.
We re-live an old hotel’s sea-face
In the sun-lit sea walled up to sky.
We squat in its sea-rusted lounge
Chairs stacked up like memoirs.
An old red and white lighthouse
Looks down on us , long retired.
A fragrant memory comes back
Of a flower on pillow I slept last.
On a pavement by the sea
Multitudes of stars flicker
In the buzz of cell phones
Announcing their flickers.
Footprints on beach sand
Are submerged by waves.
A lone star’s death makes
No difference to the milk.
( After D.H.Lawrence’s poem Submergence)
An old sea is in lesser mood.
Waves barely reach old feet.
An old sun hangs near a sky
But it will be pale and white.
The old walk on beach sand
Sand will be brown and hot.
Mornings are red, still-born.
Evenings turn red and dead.
We jostle with beach crowd
Trying to fit its self in selfies
Against old sea , that is still
Growing old against the sky.
Waves throw up old stories
Of bodies from their selfies
Bursting out of their frames.
Their selves grow just as big
As their selfie sticks permit
And their fragile arms reach.
Some times we saw a dragon
Just below a night’s windows.
We would end up seeing him
In unmasked night of the sea
Come rolling on sea’s waves
From the other half of world.
Dragon had hole in its belly.
Repair has made him whole.
The city tourists are now back
For selfie with smiling dragon.
People are sea riding on waves.
There is nothing central to sea.
Statues are not men but things
That are not central to the sea.
Sea is history rising high in sky,
Not where statue finger points.
Poets are as central to people
As stone statues in city center.
(recalling John Ashbery’s poem The One Thing That Can Save America)