Occasionally the weak survive
because the god that doesnít exist
wants to give us something to misinterpret.
Thatís what Crane was thinking
as he washed up on Longport beach.
He seemed to remember the afterlife
had been a boat forever lost
in the doldrums of the sea.Ý Then a storm,
the boatís captain thrown overboard,
suddenly captain of nothing,
waves buffeting him and his crew
until they surrendered and went under.
He saw a man, suntanned, hairy-chested,
squatting near a dune, eating something
heíd pulled fom a bag.Ý It was
(by the expression on the manís face) bitter
though the man kept on eating
as if he couldnít get enough.Ý Crane felt
he was dreaming a writerís dream; heíd arrived
in a world he himself had made.
By this time many people from town
were making their way toward him.
No, they walked right by
as if they were pursuing the horizon.
Itís pointless, Crane wanted to say,
wherever youíre all going.
But he knew theyíd think he was lying,
or maybe not even hear him.