In the distance the foghorn at the mouth of the Quillayute, unseen singing oh how the eyes deceive– like some mechanical dove or breath above a bottle, two hollow notes, one in constant falling. As the campfire dies smoke is held in close by the damp, the ocean lost in the whole of the night, but out there ships pass under a starless sky, and all that lies beyond them is tomorrow–
Arch, I’d like to go see the Arch, trenchant, I’d like to go see the sea– Melville I know about Novembers of the soul, and Decembers, Januarys, and Februarys– There’s something about the Pacific that tempers a temper, dulls a sharp tongue, I don’t know why I get like I do but call me Ishmael it’s not unprecedented– just give me a shore and a ship and a star to sail by and a home […]
I woke with a want for the ocean gray and desolate, with winter surf veiled under soft, steady rain. A desert won’t be the same, too still and open– the ocean closes in, relentlessly. But the stars, you say, they’ll be amazing– Yes, if only I wanted clarity, but the act of waking was enough. Now I want to be muffled, I want to be hidden, to watch the squall lines build and then swallow up the […]
OPTIONAL POETRY 