footprints carved into the wet sand,
a thousand tiny monuments to what was.
the way we see Easter Island mysterious,
run all around and right up to that edge
where the meticulous breath of the ocean
swallows them out of history.
onyx-feathered ravens of mystical proportion
give fleeting chase to the sepia shadows of humanity,
leaden in footprints soon washed away by the sea
and her repetitive bosom.
they all keep a memory, the ravens and the ocean,
much the same as we keep an entwisted
record of the past,
in the feigned hopes of illuminating a future path.
the basal nerve ganglia of the sea is everywhere,
even in the nightblack flight of the ravens
checking the liminal space from water to
the vacuum beyond,
which we rarely considered as anything
beyond capital expansion.