Ray Succre
PacificaDepot Bay stilts on her bed and bay, drinking up chip-boats
and having a village tumble off each direction.
A poured rain, a large plummeting rain,
one-hundred drops in one spot in one minute,
makes a mall of the ground and an absence of lookers up.
The bay is disrupted, the town lows to sleep,
the ships bray and the tugs meul; all the world starts here.
Connectivity
At bay’s low tide (for thoughts, like bodies,
are designed to be encased
by things),
exposed creatures must become knobby and
dissonant, irresolved over the talking in their mouths.But near them, crabs in their cases
are asleet on the mud
and say much to each other.
Foam words spittling
snapdragon clats from their hinges,
they’re looking for dead
tissue to fress like rasp-fish.
They are famished, vomit from hunger
digesting themselves, hobbling on
their eight spiny points, but here,
they know the hour enough to say:We’ve dabbed our sheets of eggs across the stones,
and we’ve strung them between the pebbles,
however, the surf has receded too far,
down there look at the miles of sand to the water…The gulls will have us all.
Do we know them more when they are destroyed,
and our moods are created there, or is it the gulls
are more in our hearts, and we are the circling heads?
Bio:
Ray Succre is a playwright and poet living on the southern Oregon coast. He has published poetry, short stories, and essays in numerous print publications in England, Scotland, Singapore, Finland, Austria, Canada, and throughout the United States. He has also appeared in numerous online magazines. He is 29, married to Maisy Succre, and has just become a father.
