No Help for That | Jackie Clark

The tide’s return
is what we await.

It matters less
the distance drawn

in lengths of spools,
spinning prowess

& lean instruction.
Pressure pushes

forth through the days,
the yawning fold

of anymore, of driving
through the green.

From here I see
the tops move along.

There are reasons
why the grass grows

straight & why
winnowing pride

stalks around
on long legs.

The sea welcomes whatever
it meets on the sand.