Wave

There are a half-dozen books of which I own two copies—one to loan and one as insurance. Donna Stonecipher's The Reservoir is one of those books. I got the loaner copy back Tuesday night and was flipping through it this morning. Most of the pieces are extended prose poems where the paragraph stands in for the stanza. Here's the first stanza/paragraph of "Wave":

Seaside, the sun proves that I am hollow. Down by the water the sandcastle is a small irritant in the wave's mouth. My white shirt flutters above me, blinding with sunlight; a white butterfly navigates the tufts. It is for reaffirmation of certain knowledge that a pilgrim seeks out an uncertain landscape. Why, tonight, did the sunset tell me something I already know, when there is so much unseen goldenrod yet to clasp?