Revisionist Poetry – Angered Conversants, v.2

Wind knifes the shore and keeps its rude counsel;
two salt-bleached lengths lie like old bones—
one half-buried, the other split and cupped
as if to hold what the tide forgot.

They bear the maps of storms: dark rings, sun-bleached grain,
a barnacled thumb where some net once caught.
Around them voices spool — hot, bright, and short —
the human work of scoring air with argument.

The driftwood listens with slow, patient timber,
scars sealing themselves where the sea has let go.
While mouths hammer and hands try to bend the world,
these two refuse the trade: they keep their small calm.

Look: the wind lays a white line along their ribs—
not judgment, only the indifferent law of salt.
If we need a witness, let it be the weathered wood:
quiet, whole enough to show what breaking leaves behind.