Gara Point

Gara Point
 
I sat where spines are mummified,
laid out on the land
as electric struck boughs
or stiff puff bellies,
watched the flush sheep
graze on dry grasses  
where breeze cuts through
as feverishly as violent hands
tightly clutching violent wrists,  
trying to convey something immeasurable,
slate slips under fumblesome tides
without control, omega in veins,
stronger, more robust, than I,
read a book, contemplated why
humans collide with such blows
even with breaks on
as if magnetic and irrefutable
in their need to connect,
contemplated why we can't rewind time
watch again softened branches
when they're new and assured
before collapse, upon repeat,
and repeat again,
I suppose we do in many ways.  
And I continue aging,
wandering to where it feels wild,
stealing jaw bones under rubble
from those who no longer have tongues.