Writing on the waves

for Wilma

Too soon, these typhoons, tripping over the shore
And blasting guns of water and ripped rivets,
Leave us bare and dripping, underbelly exposed,
Swollen and swamped with the fetid farrago
Of remnant foundations and leftover lives.

How soon will we let ourselves hear the tocsin
Sounding in improbably fathomed depressions,
In the capricious contrariety of circling violence,
In the visions of shimmying voracity already
Pounding our doggedly dreaming shores?

Written for the word of the day, tocsin, at Poem of the Day.