Slosh of waves, soft pink

sky, picknicking giggles, full

moon rising. One thing.

“One has been so wounded that one cannot be fully at home there henceforth. One is a little over the boundary between between life and death and there is no seamless return to the first life ever again.” IU 107

Work-in-progress

Between the sunset

and the dark the regatta

shines at the cove’s end.

The horizon glows

before going gray, as if

to say, you, you, you

have lived in this light

between coming and going.

Adjust to the dark.

It may take some time.

You will hear ducks calling o-

ver head, but go home.

Work-in-progress

We sat here talking

low last night while the sun set.

An odd couple, old

and young, patient and

care-giver, intimate and

other. As the light

fades tonight, the geese

gather, ducks cry out crossing

the water. This too

is our world, now, both

together and apart, while

there is time to spare.

Work-in-progress

“The metaphysical frailty and yet the robust there-ness of our being at all are at stake in acknowledging the porosity.“ Desmond, Intimate Universal, 213.

I rock on a rock

at the cove this evening.

High tide gulps the salt

grass, wave on wave on

wave. October mist. No moon

cuts the night’s cacoon.

I rock on granite.

The stone is old, I know it—

the sharp eschaton,

the last thing, the edge.

Eros or death? The cricket

sings in darkling trees.

“[Poetic intelligence] derives its energy from willingness to discard conclusion in the face of evidence.” Louise Gluck

Work-in-progress

Autumn glare almost

eclipses the cove. Sooty

ducks don’t move an inch

and say nothing. This

is the dark moon’s brighter side.

Boats stay in their slips.

The cove still opens

on the Atlantic—out of

sight and out of mind.

Such steadiness! I

am in awe. Perception does

not hold still (L. Gluck).