After ten years, recollection’s net
needs mending. I tie-in nylon,
replacing torn sections, but that is all I know
of how to slow forgetting. Recall the kelp
in clumps and strands
like God’s oleaginous green
hair clogging our shower drain.
Slurp of sand gulping the shovel down—
four cuts framing little exhalations,
sparkling and vanishing. From each upheaval,
we plucked shut fortune cookies,
plunked them in the bucket.
Intent on forms, I skewered contents.
Innards gummed the blade.
My reckless digging didn’t lessen—
all dull skill and skull muscle.
Eagles swarmed the beach behind us,
garrulous as gulls, and grateful,
I imagined, to make use
of our mess. Birds of prey
playing the gleaners. Call them
what you will. I project. We made
a minefield. I project, still. We left
for supper—clams with rosemary
and lemon. I am improficient
at repair. I am reaching
for a better way to praise
the soft parts.