Michael Harty

Hidden sunset; a gulf of darkness
seeps upward from the horizon
to join unbroken clouds, milk-green
baywater opaques to pewter.

Yet in the wash of waves
is the sound of plenty. Overnight
more secrets will appear
where today’s lie picked over
and fracturing into this land,
this mere midden of the sea.

Like a remora left sharkless,
or a tern or gannet interrupted
when the pelican wings away to roost,
I end my day of scavenging.
I rest while the ocean builds
my home from its leftovers.