Sandpiper
The roaring alongside he takes for granted, And that every so often the world is bound to shake. He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward, In a state of controlled panic, a
Seascape
This celestial seascape, with white herons got up as angels, Flying high as they want and as far as they want sidewise In tiers and tiers of immaculate reflections; The whole region, from the
The Bight
[On my birthday] At low tide like this how sheer the water is. White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare And the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches. Absorbing, rather than
Rain Towards Morning
The great light cage has broken up in the air, Freeing, I think, about a million birds Whose wild ascending shadows will not be back, And all the wires come falling down. No cage,