the tides are impossible these days
moving in and out of focus,
leaning and falling back from shore
clawing the ground as they're pulled.
they sift through the rocks
like a child looking for shells
or burying his feet
as deep as he can in the gravel's warmness
before the cold comes for his ankles.
the water moves faster than before--
now that the moon's in an ice chest
shedding dust and gravity
somewhere in a ship far from shore--
and the men who caught it
have hopelessly lost their way,
victims of an all-too-sudden high tide
and violent, rushing winds.

it turns out it didn't take much
to take the silvered old rock down.
moonlight is spun like a web
down in pillars to the ground and water,
sticking to sea spray and the clouds,
suspending in the air.
a couple of fishermen caught it
while filled half-and-half
with sleep and moonshine.
they said it wandered near the edge
of the cliff where night meets the day
and when they threw the net up
the moon's web got twisted, tangled in rope
and pulled it right down with them.

some light floats on.
broken strands of silk take to the air,
still attached to the ground and water,
though the connection's cut at the other end.
they're waving away today, in the sky,
like a luminous greeting:
hello, or goodbye.
people watching onshore say it's pretty
to see the moonlight like this--
they say it looks like a field of tall grass
pushed sideways and whirling,
carrying fireflies and ladybugs away
from the overgrown--
and they feel like the insects
buried deep in their own glowing forest,
talking to the sea and moonlight with waves.