Hunched-back, snail like,
Carrying his worldly possessions
Of flotsam and jetsam, he shuffles
Through sand, weighed down with other people's
Unwanted baggage, leaving no mark
As the tide washes away any trace of his existence.

Where does he sleep? Do the soft dunes
Allow dreams of far horizons, and at
The winter solstice, does he disappear
Into the calling sea of mermaids and
Drink deeply at Neptune's side?

Does he leave his trail of silver
For us, who are not yet wise enough
To treasure the broken memories
Or to collect only driftwood that has been
Shaped and smoothed in the other world,
Where there is no refuge for shattered men
Nor healing pools for torn hearts.