The end of street sea sings to small, curled ear and I know now that I can rest.
The fisted, hard sounds of my jerked weeping will soon enough wane, leaving only a void.
The commotion has ceased, for now - at least. Still, I do not sleep.
I only dream, dream, and dream: such things you would not believe.
What fool would waste the still dark, the first light,
the sight of dawn's fog as it lifts from this Atlantic ,
rolling in with its gulls and terns, each of them speaking
their story from the nearest high-peaked roof.
I savor the blue-blackness of the moment.
Dark as an Indian sapphire, and in it
I lie awake, though not quite, more trance-induced.
Why perhaps I've even found some peace!
Palms face up, I am so blank or is it calm?
Neither really matters.
Simple contentment is vastly over-rated: the heart is not satisfied with only this.
It lacks importance when each day is a fight for some half- survival,
I live to the next, knowing exactly what we’ll say: our stupid litany.
Now, now, now...
The time is not quite right.
Not yet. For today -
I will curl in on myself like a fiddle-head fern and rest by the sea-window,
and there I will breathe in as if you were here, as my room fills with the scent of fog and the sea,
echoes with the sounds of pebbled waves that shake like a bag of old bones that drag against the shoreline -
- our shared eastern seaboard.
Tomorrow I’ll lay them out.
Tomorrow, perhaps I’ll divine our future.