Wednesday, September 3, 2008


The foghorn moans like a taken virgin

I'm here, sitting on a bench, facing Rochester
wondering where that old man is I saw here last year
the one with ragged pockets containing tales like lint and dust

Serpently the fog steals up the beach -- a threat between its teeth

The cacophony of kids tumbling into each other
bounce off blue-bell waves into trees
like a happy plague of bees

. . . . Hey Bobby: Bobby!

. . . . Mom! Mom! Billy just...

. . . . Mom! Mom!
. . . . Look at me mom!
. . . . MOM!! LOOK!!

The fog was as harmless as Sandburg made it
I should have remembered

From the waterworks to the coal-coated piers,
like beads on a necklace, lovers stroll the shoreline
murmuring private psalms,
eyes happy as laughter from children on swings

The foghorn moans like a taken virgin

Then there are the hippies, stoned, scattered
like autumn leaves on the green-wave hills.

The wind is perched
waiting in the trees
to ambush unaware children

The lighthouse
a messiah draped in a toga of white-washed metal
stands gathering waves around its concrete knees
The gulls are parables

Along the shore waves curl around splinters of sun
casting them before the feet of passing lovers

The foghorn moans like a taken virgin

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