TELLER

She claims to see the future
in a glass orb,
in the palm of a hand,
in the cards spread
out on a small table.

He knows all history
is written in books
is retold in stories
is buried in successive
layers of soil beneath the city.

Neither walks along the shore
see this wave
lapping the sand
and this, and this.
Neither stoops to pick
up the shell,
to watch the crab
scutter, to feel
the pull
of the ocean.

The wave has no future,
has no history,
and caresses the whelk,
crab and foot, uncaring.