This sea as every saddle
—a crazed horse gnawing each raindrop
and I begin to count, take attendance
though-- it does no good, the rain
still smells from salt, from snow
—even winter is lost, sniffing my wrist
as if it came from a warm room
and a flower, maybe by December.
I strap to this great sea
a pail filled with feed :a class, tiny desks
set adrift, 30, 31, 32 :the waves
bolted to what might still be
those cramped chairs or from the beach
my heart waving back to something it can't see.