by Lucia Coppola

There was a storm in my bed last night or so I thought
as I lay huddled in at the soggy campground 
near the seaweed the tide brought up this morning -  a promise of sun 
and more walks at the beach, a last look at the dunes, the wild grassland 
and what’s written in the sand - these are the days and 
the sea levels are rising

today - last moments at the village cafe and then at night -  a collection 
of rocks at a friend’s house, driftwood, shellfish, wine and a tale  
about a dolphin that trails and tries to lure him away  
like a sea spirit captured by the bay  
though to me he looks more like a drunken sailor or a poet  
as we too hope to surf the wave when the village is submerged   
and the island drifts farther and farther 

today - “The Night of Shooting Stars”, we read on a poster
walking home by the shore with cell phones for flashlights
looking up at the sky one last time
before we get on a train wishing we’ll return some time 
before all the glaciers melt
before coastlines disappear

today - there’s a dishevelled woman at the station who’s
homeless and stranded with bags like seaweed scattered around her 
and a dog that looks tired as she rants about how she’s just been trapped 
in an automatic lavatory  - how she hopes the jerk that made 
the blinking buttons gets stuck in his own shit one day 
with a wake up call

today -  what she says, we confirm is true as we too 
fear all these devices that turn us into zeros and ones - the calculated 
reduction of public places, the auctioning off of our spaces and hopes 
to inherit the Earth one day or just go back to the sea -  to get called out 
at high tide with a drunken sailor on a night of shooting stars 
and a homeless mermaid these days 
where we’ve been and watched the sea levels rising