Kurt Van Ristell

You can make a living
Doing anything.

May day. The ocean tugs like a magnet,
Black and ice
Cold below the wax of butter,
Churning foam. The sun:
A ball of gas and molten dispassion.

It pulls seashells into stretched
Taffy shadows at set
And daubs gulls, snowblind
White streaks against a cloudless
Summer sky.

The drive home from Brighton
Passes in silence.
Bank holiday. A twenty-four
Hour reprieve from the four
Hour life.

You can make a living
Doing anything
I tell myself.