the beach is for losing yourself*
i ask you what manner of man or beast could ignore its siren song
it dragged our silly smiles across the sand
feet trailing giddily behind us
we slipped wearied into the warm unceasing avalanche
and a year was washed away
in the thunderous salt rinse

the beach is for best friends and for beer
it is for games beneath the stars
while a plankton metropolis fluoresced underfoot
and a meteor grazed the spine of leo
we slumbered through brooding rains
that slunk away when we awoke to stare them down
white shapes cast slender shadows on the reeds at noon
sea breezes crooned tunes every child has always known
in languages no man will ever understand

the beach is for all of us
last night we dreamt of ancestral slimes marching out of it
today let us plunge in
it is for even creeping snakes and gnawing fleas
verily

but most of all
it is for your glistening face
for two sleepy seagreen eyes accustoming themselves to the bright shores of morning
while your coffee cooled on the camp stove
it is for the sheen of your wild brown arms
the surf of your laughter
words with which you filled a quiet moment
circling in my mind like gulls over the harbor

yes most of all
most of all
it is for you
speeding down the narrow cape
i was beside you
tapping in tandem with your electronic music
realizing more with every pastel cottage flickering by
that you had found me
and i had never felt
so *safe

To Fall Creek I would often climb alone
And wade there, with my eyes skyward in thought--
Oh, now there's no more going on my own,
Without you wandering with me as you ought.

Well, I have ventured it, on summer days
When the cascade roars down its little cliff.
But deep within the noise some secret plays;
The falls whisper your name amid their riff.

The wide dome casts its blue upon green pools
To recreate the color of your eyes,
And when the doves call back and forth like fools
I catch your laughter in the coos and sighs.

Fall Creek, at least, has earned its silly name:
We stepped in it--I fell for you, and trudged out not the same.

I saw a meteor scream across the dark,
a chemical green flash above the park.
Breathless, I sought another--just one more?--
no, that was it--all quiet as before.

Thus left alone, with nothing but the smack
of waves necking with rocks behind my back,
I sank into the cool, slow-breathing grass
and shut my eyes to the star-strewn morass.

*Oh, your name is a raft,
   and my mind is a lake,
and all the night I sailed that craft,
   meteors trailing in my wake.

Rain, ride down the river
  and pass me by.
I'm gone out to deliver
  my rotgut rye.

There's children at the rope swing
  this first of June.
Up in the church, they're hoping
  he'll finish soon.

Rain, keep right on goin',
  and should you see
them solemn faces showin',
  kiss them for me.

See here, the dark oasis
   beneath the blinding noon—
the slenderest of spaces,
   and it will vanish soon.

Our shaded refuge lingers
   where bright eyes cannot pry.
Those searching, scorching fingers
   still daily pass it by.

A breeze hums through this walnut
   we scaled with childish cheer.
The sign we carved was small, but
   it still would show the year.

Time hisses as she passes,
   and flicks her eager tongue,
hunting through groves and grasses
   we used to laugh among.

I sigh in measured time,
  bemuse myself with rhyme.
Of pains I make a parlor play;
  with words I while an hour away.

Leave me to my cliches.
  They comfort me these days.
To shocking shards and blocks of rage,
  I yield the balance of my page.

How selflessly and skillfully the sun
who sang bright hours to rivers, glades, and towns
takes his appointed leave as, one by one,
the choristers of evening don their solemn silver gowns.

How suddenly the trees to brown are turned.
Fair summer heaves, demures, no longer cares.
Once more, her promises are raked and burned--
the quick and cunning frost again has caught her unawares.

How simply is the gathering of friends
dissolved, as each must hurry home alone.
With one last glass, a lingering laugh, it ends.
The well-worn chairs are left to feign a friendship of their own.

I wished for meadows gold and green,
  for forests rich and sweet,
as autumn's chill crept up between
  the boards beneath my feet.

It seemed to me within your eyes
  there welled a wish like mine--
as if the gray November skies
  could cry a draught of wine.

Mechanically, he turned and stepped away.
Though there remained a symphony to say,
the audience was obviously tired.
The orchestra was weak and uninspired.
And so he wandered up the street, and down,
through all the dry vernacular of town.
A thousand trivialities he passed
until the sidewalk brought him home at last.
He summited the dim and creaking stair.
He sank into the thrift store easy chair,
closed his eyes, and waited for her face.
She smiled at him. Then darkness took her place.

This winter has been harsh and cold; these winds
have scoured the frosted fens for miles around.

I only hope, once the seeds have sprouted,
and long-kept zephyrs hum above the chapped and chastened earth,

that you might walk the woodlands by my side—

and make with me a new, glad spring.

I could not bear
another sighing sad spring.