Ballast From The Past

•

Oh, I miss you
so Atlantic,
on this opening of August.
I spit you kisses
from a Susquehanna bridge.
The current's racing—
you should have them by tomorrow.
A gull is sudsing
in a flood spot in the bean field.
Is it a messenger?
I feel blessed.
Tonight I draw a bath
and pour in salt. Your old hotels, recall,
once ran saltwater taps.
I cannot smell your broiling sands;
I sniff a taffy wrapper instead. Ah,
what I would give for you
to heave and ho me.
What must it be to be
a ship where you start sky?
You never told me, were our dreams
of cities on your bottom fact?
Or was Atlantic City
your one big act? Once I
cast a castle with a soup can.
I trust you
resurrected it to a rock. Convolutions
of my brain are like your dunes, e-
roding. Just so you know,
oh ocean,
I never emptied out my flats.