The Tide

The tide lifts these words . . .

And then, with a swipe . . .
What was that we said?

Made, not made. You may

Have a gift for names,

For lists in which names

Roll, like tides, like waves

Up the shore to tear

The shore’s earth back down

To make more sea floor.

But the tide’s not names.

It’s the moon that drags

All that weight one way

And then back, and then

Here it comes, and then . . .

This curve tugs on that.

That mass hugs the bend.

That’s how the world is—

Things pull on more things.

You’re right, though. The tide

Does come to take back.

What you knew you won’t.

What we’ll say for you

One day, you can’t say.

That look off your face.