Brian Rihlmann writes

THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA AND THE SPLINTER

in a small cave
an old man sits on a tarp
staring at the sea
his backpack
and a rolled up sleeping bag 
nearby

from the beach below
I wave
but he just stares at me
he knows too much
to wave back

further down
small stacks of polished stones
stand precariously 
along the shore
placed with patient fingers

is this his art?
his way of leaving his mark
upon things?

in the morning fog
the wooden houses 
of the town sag
old pickup trucks rust
while the lilies bloom

none will endure
not the stacks 
not the houses or the trucks
not the lilies or the old man, or....

obvious, but still—
It’s the damndest thing...
you just can’t believe it

not when eternity stabs at us
with every footstep 
like a deep, embedded
splinter