Probation

You’re on probation
now until night
seeps in

drawing claws across
the sand’s white back.
You’re on probation

until wind
forgets your name
How unusual to trail

gulls across this churning
sea with eyes
that burn through fog,

with fingers weaving
patterns in the fragile air.
Could you have eaten

coals or found them
blazing on a bed of grass
and ferns,

or would your long walk
have ended with nothing
but the sigh of flame?

Until they carve sins
across your naked
back, and light returns

to find your mouth
round as a singing child’s,
you have nowhere to go.

They wonder if it’s silent
in that corner where you stand
or if the radio screams you home.