No More Nothing

How often have I answered the call by
    consulting the tide charts to
preempt the shimmering liturgy
    with a slab of beach concrete
from what substance contrary
    running the same tropical diversion
under the influence of wet sand
    but to carry those bare oceans in your eyes
lingering like a puff of Papal smoke
    an inquiry into the motive of the wrong-way driver
no comfort to take & none given
    edging out the better angels so as to claim your
corner of despair with something like gratitude
    & always the same answer flickering
in the shape-shifting haze of
    an otherwise empty sky