in this life by the sea
Out past CJ’s,
I heard the men yelling and the bells
from the cathedral on Broad.
I walked past the tumbling
Truman Street laundromat
down to the sea.
At the pier I watched the gray gulls and the sails,
white as clouds
going out to the cotton cliffs,
towards the towns of wicker
with a semblance of freedom, like that only afforded
to some quiet, slurred words.
I stood in the sun and remarked to myself –
how long a life a world this small
would beg of us to love it!
what we created
On the coffee table lies assorted
Some small acts of love,
These products of our years:
A candlestick, asymmetrical and cracked,
And under the white tablecloth you sewed, the wine stains
We left overnight and could not scrub off come morning.
There is also the sketch of the maple
Under which we once picnicked,
And by the corner of the table, a small shrine:
A beach photograph,
A jar filled with seaglass,
A broken whittled whale.