57. Waiting for the Hurricane

My mother brought in
the deck furniture
I put the beach chairs
in the garage.
Above us the sky was still just haze
and some sunshine,
you would never know.
But 2pm tomorrow,
the television promised,
swore up and down the Eastern
seaboard, the truth was coming.
I considered the grill,
appearing suddenly exposed
in the midst
of the back patio.
A storm 400 miles across,
who cares if the Weber
is behind some drywall
or not?
My mother tugged at the
Adirondack chairs, lined
the way her face has shown
some wrinkles;
not their first storm.
“Leave ‘em” I said,
“they’ve seen worse.”
She straightened
and looked windward,
past the horizon
staring it down
to gauge the weight of an enemy.
“And the grill too,”
she said,
“I’ve learned
what you can save.”

facelift

New month, new upcoming trip, new skin. I dusted off my web development skills.

56. Sea Creature

A man stands on the beach and fishes
with his head blithely skewed
and eyes closed.
Rapture of the shepherd
of the sea.
He tugs his line,
his governance of the
ocean’s idiot marionette,
which cries beastly
and weeps:
a cloud bedded down
and wet with dying.
But no, the man’s eyes
shut, commandeer,
there is no end.
The ocean’s limbs twist,
twist and spray
become the sky
leave salt
on the shepherd’s palms.

55. Bodies of Water

What floats
this close to shore
exulted by the viridian tide?
Some mossy detritus
(dead animal? driftwood?
all organic,
all party to decomposition)
–and sometimes my body a buoy
on the waves.

Lord,
when you shine down
from the far side of thunderclouds
in your lieutenant shafts of light

let me not neglect
to hide my face.

Let me heed the word
braided in rays
before the keen pebbles of sunlight
on the water
dazzle and drown me,

the unincorporated command
instructing the body’s mirror:
reflect.

return

August’s over, time to begin again.

brief hiatus

There are now 50-odd first drafts I put up here; I need a break. Regularly programming to return in September, possibly sooner.

54. Closest Shore (2)

A vacation house on the edge
of the Atlantic Ocean stands erect
in the near-darkness after sunset.
Even in early August the season
has started to shift,
passing the apex of temperatures and visitors
brought to this seaside town.
A young man at the kitchen counter
chops mushrooms for a late dinner and,
hearing his mother make an off-hand comment
about the stove, pauses
knife hanging over the cuttingboard
while he is suddenly moved by a deep
and elegant tide of sadness
because his childhood home no longer exists.
Outside the blackness condenses
and the waves become the same void color
as the air.
A moon breaks the horizon
and the man goes back to chopping,
cutting the mushrooms finer and finer.
Dear heart, when did the darkness fall
on our salt-whitened shores?
When did the waves stop
keeping us up at night?

53. Closest Shore

A vacation house on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean
stands erect in the near-darkness of sunset.
A young man standing at the kitchen counter
chopping mushrooms hears his mother
make a comment about the stove and pauses,
knife hanging over the cuttingboard
suddenly moved by a deep and elegant tide of sadness
because his childhood home no longer exists.
Outside the blackness condenses
and the waves become the same
void color as the air.
Early August but already
the season starts to shift,
passing the apex of temperatures and visitors.
A moon breaks the horizon
and the man goes back to chopping
cutting the mushrooms finer and finer.
Dear heart, when did the darkness fall
on our salt-white sand?
When did the waves
stop keeping us up at night?

52. Nightclub

We showed those bankers
a thing or two about
how to move
on the tabletop;
that it’s easier to impress women
by dancing than with
bottle service,
even if the champagne comes with
a sparkler tied to the bottleneck.
The last night of July was swelter.
Inside the club and out
the temperature stayed high
right on through
and we danced into August
with the cavernous skyline of the Bund
grim across the river,
the skyscapers one by one
shutting the lights off
for the night.

51. Night Falls

Dark lines the fields behind the house.
Midwest, what a sweet song
the sound of an early dusk,
breath drawn into pockets of darkness
growing heavier, fuller.
Into those little inland seas
you could throw your childhood,
the tune your father would whistle in the garden,
anything.
And out would walk a solitary deer
nibbling at the humid grass,
collecting the shapes of night in silence.