Incidental like a Dolphin

i.    In the heel of the reel, death may be largely
      our conversion from the one particular
      into the many. The any, even. A wheel trim, say,
      ludicrous by a dune path hectic with snail,
      silken rose and lemony pockets of kidney vetch.

ii.    Knotted slings of dog waste deck the sea holly
      where, a sleepless indolent aping sage, I
      pluck with my telescopic grabber to fill
      transparent green bin liner with plastic booty: spatched
      bottle tops, atomic orbits of angler’s gut, plus
      other Anthropocene beach finery,
      polyurethane middens of a society perfecting
      how its past may yet surpass its time to come.

iii.   My current wife, the sky, lacquers out over the whale-
      loud deeps, the seed heads of her swathing water
      turquoising under belts of wrack, thongs of weed
...