Somewhere in the Aegean

The light hazes pink on the afternoon
sea, beached together in soft marble.
Small pebbles, driftwood old and lined
as skin under foot the sounds of
glockenspiel beats. Hollow,
it taps away somewhere
just out of reach.
White horses flicker on the beating
wind and worry the haze. The boat
up ahead is wrecked but still
rolling; a skull strung with
fishing line sways far from
the flock. Someone has lost
a shoe. It is small, two fingers. And
foil scraps catch the light long
before sinking beyond the peak. Neon light
among the pebbles, it cannot save you,
torn like that. How many people,
how many. The hollow glockenspiel
tones. Small bones.