Wharf Toward Winter

By | 1 May 2017

Then the spare melancholy
of a wharf toward winter: the island
opening the long view South
the wuthering of gunfire on wind

Safe in this cold anchorage
you can’t hear all the cries
you can’t hear all the gnashing
you can’t hear, can’t hear again

The Island of No is beautiful
grabbing its own to its own
beautiful at cutting the waters
and repeating the patterns, repeating

the patterns, its blow-hards scraping
the fronds from the crevices under the wharf
toward winter, the waves draining
out to the long view South…

The Island, its stealers-away
taking the light by force,
leaves the waves to die
singing of gunfire on wind.

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