FOOTWORK

   by Cappy Love Hanson

Squinting under an angled hand, I slouch 
through hummock grasses that have seen it all 
yet don’t put up enough resistance to discourage 
even me.  Maybe they believe that everybody 
has to dope it out for themselves.  
    Maybe they’re the oracles I should consult.
The bluffs and sea stacks have decided on 
their own responses, thrusting raw layers seaward
in a grain-by-grain wink at geologic mortality.  
    Is this the best advice?  How safe?  
All the way to the horizon, storm clouds 
sniffle themselves to sleep.
    I’m prone enough to that already.
Night’s about to win the argument 
for custody of the sky, and the shrouded moon 
is taking its customary liberties with the tides.
    Is that what pulls me this way and that?

Just when I feel drained of metaphors, 
a whitecapped chaos kicks up, turns the conundrum 
of its future over and over without conclusion 
until, for one cresting second, it draws itself up whole--
then stumbles on the shallows, pitches forward
with its foamy arms splayed, sprawling headlong.
    Way too much like real life.

By now, I can’t remember what I’ve taken 
this long walk to ponder, and the ocean’s 
no help.  It’s still a mirror with nothing to reflect, 
and I’m thrown back on my own 
worn silver backing and chipped glass, 
once more forced to beg for redemption 
and labor for it myself.