round a
corner
through
the dark of a forest's canopy
almost to the edge
of the boundary
you'll see it
at the turn of the river
it sets a glow
a turn of eye
you can't miss
follow
the sunburst in
the clouded sky
it will show you
where
fairies and urchins dwell
in peace
and tiny things good grow
gonna take  over the earth one day
this small place will
and make the world glow

vision to make a painting-sculpture
work
a landscape
to catch
the essence
verve the epitome
of glorious sunlight
in the morning
dew
on your back
in the woods
when we awoke
naked and I caught
that emblazoned
picture forever in my mind
of
of your naked
shoulder
Highlighted glistening
in all God's glory
in our nest
in the pines
in a sanctuary, I visit
often trying to
savor

the fan chops the turgid air
as the moon settles lower in the sky
and we lie as far from each other as we can
with just our fingertips touching
love on a muggy heat driven night
is a matter of thought as opposed to action,

we are beyond languid and are now puddles
of tired humanity, just waiting for the tipping hour
when the temperature drops enough to sleep

til then we commune with the darkness and wait

She lived along the Atlantic coast
and had a collection of lobster pots
by the porch
and her lawn was trimmed for croquet
smelled of clams at low tide
the house was set near barnacle rocks
just beyond a stand of trees.

I found her by looking in a phonebook
next to her name it said, "Poetry Journals,"
so I called the number, and said I was on my way.
"Is that ok?" I added hesitantly.

“Well, yes,” she laughed, “You can come buy one.”
I passed the sign for fresh eggs
and arrived at a black wrought iron gate that said,
"Poetry Journals - 2 for $5.00."

“You’re the first one
who’s ever made it all the way to the house for a journal…”
“In four dozen years,"
she said.
Then she asked,
“What’s your name?”

“I don’t really have a name," I said.
She nodded and understood.
She'd heard from Byron
that the Banshee drags souls out to sea
but sometimes the nameless
manage to float back looking for poetry
these lost ones are like driftwood
bringing a sense of chilly dusk
a retrospective on the sea
in a seashell
appearing by happenstance
at low tide
"yes, I hear a distant mumble of waves,"
she might have said of me
I was one of the lost
turning her porch into a quay of despair
the first one in almost 50 years
who had made it so far
to latch on
until high tide
when the rush of sea returned
washed me out again clinging for dear life
to a raft of poetry