Looking for something, something, she has run
To Rio, a sandpiper in Brazil,
Where drink will type her poem pun by pun.
(Lines bottled up too long pour out until
Beach grains of opal flinders flash like quartz.)
Poor bird, she can’t tell if the tide is higher
Or lower. Booze flows. Sometimes, the verse aborts
Itself; sometimes, she can’t tell if it’s rye or
Gin that’s soaked her in its thwarting mist.
Printing sand in darts, retreats, and darts,
She skitters back and forth to find that stone
Whose power she would dearly make her own.
The quartz grains mix with rose and amethyst,
Greek for “not drunk”—the secret, hers alone.