_ Some low tides steal us out to sea,  forget to return us to the shore.


Last night, sirens.

Last night, sirens.
Loud, long, many. Sirens
after midnight, on on and on
I have no idea why. I was
too groggy to rise and look
for police cars, ambulances
or something else, zipping
on and on up or down on and on.
My body damp and heavy and limp,
my brain absorbed in making sense
of 3000 elephants swimming
in a giant whirlpool near a coast
with a beach layered in numbers
and fragile bits of brightly colored silk.
The  sirens tangled with the waving
of the elephant trunks,  and I slipped
beneath the quilts on my bed, screwed
my eyes tight, let elephants trumpet
answers to the clash of sirens,
waves, and rocks. This morning,
nothing in the morning news.
By afternoon, the moon has drained
nearly all the water from the bay.