on that sere coast, that lone shack
along the North Sea I glimpsed
from a tourist bus,  stuck there
like light on a starless night
turned to sun at dawn near to
where the water’s green at the edge,
purple further out,  crags alongside
black pools that hold up the clouds
so they don’t fall into snow,
and the land’s upside down
like a Rorschach?   Where do wishes

come from?   Like a Rorschach
stripping me naked,  I’d be revealed
in two days for the coward I am, afraid          
the greedy waves could suck
my heart out to sea and sink it.
Every coastline holds a waking dream.
When you’ve reached the end of land,
you expect to be done with it.
I’ve lived here ten years and waiting.
It’s January.   I’m starting again,
my pantry stocked, shoes by the door.