Again frost presses
its patterns
silver fossils on the window
I try seeing beyond
the night is nothing
a background
design of creatures
that never die
For Basil Bunting
He’s making something
as a mason piling stone on stone
setting the plan before him
A man passes in the street
he lifts his eyes from the page
to see how he passes
to have been there
and gone on
A foot falls
the frame moves
the moment endures
The mason’s trowel
makes rhythm with the mud
laying it on
selecting the stone
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