August, I walk this shore in search of wholeness
among snapped razor clams and footless quahogs.
How easily my palm cradles a moon shell
coughed up on shore. I stroke the fragments
as, last night, I stroked your arm
smelling of salt, scrubbed clean by the sea air.
Once you loped near me. Now, in my mind’s eye,
your rubbery footsoles track sand hills
the shape of waves you no longer straddle.
You inch forward, step, comma, pause,
your silences the wordless rage of pain.