Christmas Nor'easter,
waves crash-landing
from wind's broken navigation,
I kneel on the beach and dig 
for Amelia Earhart's bones.
  
Yes here, yes now,
my arms sweeping sand
like Electra's wings,
to answer just one death
of the tall and the lost.
  
Next to me
the cadaver-sniffing dog,
furious, frenzied,
finds a baloney sandwich
from WWIII. 

Friday 55