Inland

The coast is a memory, a four-hour drive,

back when I felt more than halfway alive.

But here in the hall, when I pull off the shoe,

a ghost of the shoreline comes spilling through.

A handful of grit on the dark gray rug,

grayer than ash, a dry little shrug.

It’s been months since I stood where the tide hits the shelf,

now I’m just sweeping up parts of myself.

Later, the vacuum will swallow the stone,

a rattle of plastic, a hollow, sharp moan,

spinning in circles, trapped and alone.