h an icy shore. The coast was<br >one glance， and a hard wind<br >soil. Rusty war crosses tipped<br >essly now， purposefully then，<br >away from the path she had tracked to the rocks<br >A forgotten name moves in such fitful waves， engineered<br >like tumbleweed across the mental floor.<br >Fringed and furred with frost， the white waves rushed in<br >and out of each other， and violent crests shot brine into the<br >air， as if to shuck off excess emotion. At night the funeral<br >wreath blew down to the sea--long yellows and pinks，<br >birthday colors--lashed to the slimy black rocks. A dream<br >smell of salt and acid， like the inside of a mouth， and I was<br >down in it. Beach houses were battened shut， short pastels<br >with tom screens， and always on my left， the heave of the<br >night sea.<br >Barnacles bit my bare feet and knees， and greasy seaweed<br >made me drop into tiny pools of kelp. Soft sand in those wet<br >shapes there. This was the other side of the cemetery that<br >domiciled on the top of a gnawed cliff.<br >The baby might have been the least worthy of earth s<br >materials， lacking hardiness as she did. It lay with its ankles<br >crossed and its arms spread wide， like one who lives by her<br >