tide (receding)

cast up against the brick
like driftwood--a little bowed, but strong
with my face in silehoutte on the glass
and the pool of sky clear above me
lapping gently at the pavement
the crests of the clouds still and soft
of the things littering the afternoon
I could pick up a shell, a piece of frosted glass
and tell you about it
--but, equally
of the fibers
knotted smoothly and waving
resting, with the others
strewn across the shores of the day