Poem by Dane Hamann 

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WHO WILL PLAY THE SONG OF CATASTROPHE

when it’s our voices instead
that boomerang between silence

and the shattering of fiction?
We’re drowning in the high

harsh vowels of denial, no
longer hearing music or truth

anywhere but at the land’s end.
We know that the sea can carve

iron as if it were sugar cubes
and that bones always whirl

back up from the carbon black sea
floor. We study these ghosts

as they approach our tumultuous
coast, before we feed them again

to the eager mouths of waves
just to watch them roll in the surf

back to our feet. The water
always returning our sins.