Poem to Be Given a Seafaring Title at a Later Date

      Falling off from here

      a few points

      to catch a better wind

      and beat the storm

      to the breakwater

      then turning south

      before the wind

      running free to a safe harbor

      one we can make in this weather

      riding crests in a following sea

      plunge of bow

      deep in the trough and the sweep

      of white water down the decks

      mast creaking and all lines taut

      we hold and sway

      carried on the storm that threatens us

      Someone is signaling from the beach

      the gesture noted and lost

      trying to mark

      the mouth of a channel we’ve given up

      Waters School Road

      A false prophet

      the most delicate feather

      plucked from a fallen bird

      brilliant as a thistle

      as the tiniest speck of lavender

      you never noticed

      at the center of Queen Anne’s lace

      The road narrows to darkness

      along its edge in the deepest green

      the fish-white belly of a frog

      his legs

      sprawled in violent dance

      My own faint tracks

      the diamond

      the nerve in the sole of my shoe

      You are here in my hand

      or moving under my hand

      like a river leaving no trail

      or a light growing dim

      from Exposures at f/22

      A bleached negative

      pounding off the snow

      it dazzles

      Nothing prepares us for this

      we have filters to cut the glare but long for night

      some corner we can’t see around

      The light from the window

      accentuates her shadows

      black crescents

      below her breasts

      every pore visible

      her stomach slopes

      to its black triangle

      He is feeling the wall

      for a streak of sunlight

      He is blind and will find it

      by its warmth

      Above his head

      the picture of a crow he painted

      It is entirely black

      There was no light to surround it

      A man in a black cape

      tending sheep

      or is it a woman

      The sun is rising over the trees

      Someone died last night

      The sheep are uneasy

      and run from the shepherd

      The sun is white

      the trees are grey

      Only one

      is distinguishable

      The door has the texture

      of crusted salt

      It is one hundred and thirty years old

      and hides nothing

      worth the three brass locks

      which secure it

      Garrapata Beach

      black mountains white plains

      and shadows

      the mountains cast shadows

      larger than themselves

      In the foreground a plateau

      forming from mist

      He is startled

      the clarinet held as something forbidden

      the cracked wall

      the grapevine

      his mouth slightly open

      eyebrows arched

      He is sixteen and resents this intrusion

      It is Tuesday in Havana

      May Day

      “You’re some kind

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