Sestina for Stuart, Grace & Millie
Wait for the subway, dream of the sea
The birds and gathering genius of waves
Nothing cares what beaches wear
Lessening frowns of farewell, less the sand
That finds its way into my bed, as good sense
Fills the pond, as into the hills good birds fly
Madmen say that to die is to fly
Seagulls will raid a bag of crisps by the sea
They make no play and they make no sense
A beat-up car full of strangers waves
Takes a turn, leaves behind in the sand
The old clothes they never wear
A century's bad plan is what they wear
Threadworn and dirty, pretending to fly
It’s crazy love that comes from the sand
Changing winds, the endless cascade of the sea
Lands freight, imports treasure, brings waves
As it continues to teach imperfect sense
The stars have the right idea, cosmic sense
Is just in time for what they wear
Down the billion years of explosive waves
Worlds colliding, a billion fragments fly
Through space, and every other extinct sea
Is a lost dream of water turned to sand
Stretch the bones of words, work the sand
Sensibility, sensitivity, insomnia, sense
The crap in what you throw away, the sea
Wants to remake every tide you wear
To walk in or stride through, run or fly
Looking at the water playing in the waves
The big sun above, moved by waves
Swimming in currents, schools over sand
Insensitive tribes that need to fly
To electrical impulse or sense
For a moment or two they wear
The hopes and monsters of the sea
And we all bounce on the sea like waves
Wondering about this sad sand we wear
While we fly like the fishes, dreaming sense
© 2016 Rob Schackne
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