All that We Do Is Touched with Ocean
                                         —Richard Wilbur

by Michael Sandler

All truth lies buried in belief
that no castle lasts, yet must be built.
We dig and pat sandy clumps to shape,
do an inward dance, and think ourselves discrete—
islands of selfhood, where the lucky have souls
touched by alien breath, by drifters,
                                       sand crabs, shovelers
with whom we share this transience…
Ocean, Ocean, let us stay awhile

and our works weather one more tide.

Yet some believe lies true up the narrative.
We boast, what’s made is ours and will long
remain, that our solo displays rival a moon
on the horizon silvering
the breakers, that cunning and skill
shore up what darkness swallows. The marvel
of ghost-light is it calls to mind
what has been lost if not prized: the awe
we once took from a night sky when we dwelled
                                 among crickets and didn’t
know what we would pilfer from the gods.