The Ancient Modern
The Sea Is Nothing / Joshua Alan Sturgill
To misremember
is not to forget. Maybe you
standing with the ocean
on your shoulders
and only the coda of sunset
between us is a truth
without history. Years
are pages and leaves in
tide-washed succession.
Couldn’t memory, too,
have its own depths,
its tenseless currents
of evidence? In my hand,
the yellow photograph:
concrete driveway, packed
car, overcast afternoon.
I concede. Yes, this was one
of possible days. But I
taste salt in the sky
how cold was the water
and so many stars
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