Pierpont Beach

I’ll stand at that western edge of land, the sun’s day home.
There, waves end their roving eastward trek and break and die
and are absorbed to that old brine-plain, where seagulls roam.

I’ll stay till he makes his lonely pilgrimage, and lies
his burning body down, and burns the sky blood-orange
And red, then silent black, and is extinguished.