Tuesday, September 9, 2014


There's always something left
To say; there's not always
A good way to say it.

Two years ago, the Bay
Rode high at the boathouse;
Six years ago the sun

Sat bronze on calm water
Into late September,
And then, whatever now

Is is passing along
From years before the mast
To more years beforehand.

We can't even decide
If the past that's before
Us is in front of us

Or always behind us.
Everything thus before,
Whether in front or back.

We're so turning around,
Rotating on ourselves,
Blank axes, we're the logs

Washed up on the stone shores
In winter by the Bay,
Driftwood piling all spring

During the runoff, spun
By the high and subtle,
Low and reassuring

Murmuring of the waves,
Awkward, mysterious
Of origin, cut, dropped

By heavy weather, wind,
Sloppy harvesting, or
What? What goes before us?

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