Behind green alder curtains the bay pretends
to move abetted by the breeze and three
gulls feigning stillness.

Beneath,
their slabby feet beat time
against the current.

It’s only a yacht that disturbs the flat
placidity, churning the surface
and showing depth

but in turn
hiding keel and ballast
and obscuring its true weight.

I’d forgotten how deep duplicity
runs  in the course of new
acquaintance, with no more malice

than a blade of grass– an edge
nonetheless, couched among
clover and stands

of lawn daisies, purveyors
of the sortilege he loves me, loves me not. 

But I’ve abandoned augury —
these birds grown complacent

in unseasonable warmth, only too
happy to take it as it comes, and the moon

is full and faint in a peerless blue sky:
the O in omen, an echo of the sun,
the longing part of Who? 

[note — tearing out hair regarding form — can’t figure if out]