Sunday, September 7, 2014

THEN and NOW

Foghorns lowing in humid voices, 
ward off terrible nights, just terrible, 
rattling putty-loose panes in your 
windows staring blindly at fronds 
madly slapping at wind but you sleep  
I had been sleeping, my brother 
but now I am awake in my child’s 
room in the night watching twinkle 
lights on boats pitched in the bay’s 
foamy throat, horns calling to us 
to you lost 
in fog wallowing into swells 
it is as if your absence opens  
the sea’s chasm now, it coughs, 
 and you still sleep with deep 
meaning forever through the end,  
carelessly listening to the foghorns 
praying
 their baritone chorus over 
a signal light
 flashing from voice 
to voice and I tremble, pull the 
coverlet taut across my child’s  
breast and when I turn from
 
the window and from the restless 
sea, from loss, from you, the room 
fills
 with dark forest lush with vines 
we’ve  never seen, frogs croaking 
songs we’ve never learned, will 
never know, but the anguish we’ll 
never
 lose in the voices of engulfing 
darkness, moaning your name 
Richard
 and now that I am alone 
I’m ready
  to confess the awful pain 
twisting my conceited heart it 
was
some trivial dispute that carries 
 me here, my arms full of ghosts, 
 of roses,
to kneel at your feet 
almost ready
 to see how at each 
turning we grew
 and I chose this way,  
this place and
 and you another but 
now this, this
 converging of ocean 
and earth with
horns deeply chanting 
I can keep going
 if I listen, if I feel 
where I cannot
 breathe, if I will begin 
without you, horns lowing your name 
east through the fog,
 to meet your 
rising light standing
 at water’s edge 
at this void beyond
voids where 
we’ll once again share
 our child songs 
in this empty space
 where love speaks 
in the fog,
at this place, Land’s End.