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Kitsilano Beach
Rochelle Mass
The sand isn’t dusty yet, shells shine with winter, barnacles
shift light. The sea stays deep and thick. Doesn’t reach the sky
like in summer. I pulled at my collar, stared to hear the waves
pound the beach Ð knead like bread, till I feel the land
under each smack. I watched a man pulled by three dogs.
They clustered, the man pulled out a pipe, turned from the wind. I watched
the dogs hold together, then suddenly spring toward the sea, swarm
at the edge.
The sea is hard and flat, then softens, splurges into tufts of sensation.
The man stood at the water’s edge
impatient to tug them back
pulled at his pipe.
The dogs scratch at the logs, warning me, I hear.
I gathered my jacket round me.
Once in February, years ago, I saw leafless chestnut trees
cover the hillside near Pietra Santa, drank Grappa. The clear stuff
burned the chill, settled into my chest.
Now I stiffen so nothing will collapse
care about dreams that crack
then fade.
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