A lamplit walk
to the ocean
and tidal influence
following rumour, mirage—
the longed-for mercy ship
that never arrives
and the year just getting started,
as we like to point out.
Seafoam, that crabbed allure,
seen and heard along the byroad
transfiguring with the crescent waning,
came and went with a natural
constancy, a dynamism.
Against this, we go to make our visit.
We observe the usual sallying forth springing on
the displaced surface, then hummingbirds who
beat their wings in wallpapery delight toward morning.
From this fluttering betrayal comes
the weak shadow of a dancing poplar,
its charm and hush notes always a single flat
or sharp away from the margin.
We carry hope of crossfire
drawing from the body of water,
for a piece of evidence
checked absolutely
for evidence.
