Drum of Tomorrow’s Tell

when doors have shaken
for his stillness
at the night’s mere dripping of
jewelry, liquid shiny-dark
as the secret
that wants its spilling,

does he have choice?

alone,
he plays in shells aligned
with mix of wave and dream,
sand a torrent
under his bronze-cool body
as rain wets the shore
to fill time’s gentle sorrow
with what might come
to fix it

yet the stillness
kept up,
arrayed with memories of heat
cobbled from history’s tinkle,

that soft percussion
of tomorrow’s tell
that may never foam on its way
until his ears
have shut the shutters
against the storm, and chosen nevermore
to sink under

 

(c) J. Celan Smith