Crumbling

Standing here
where the storm-battered pier
at Cape Hatteras leads crumbling into the tossing sea

a fisherman baits a hook in your periphery,
the sandpipers bobbing their heads up and down
your gaze focused on the far shore, invisible across the leagues
to the place where your spirit dwells

We followed the tracks of crabs and the sounds of the wind
blowing across the dunes, the grasses singing
to a blank place of moonlight

a descent into whiteness, devoid of memory and time