tidal palms rough
and wearing
the stone I picked
up later at the
Sound. Slapping
and crashing
violent, beauty
living beneath boats,
on my chest
and past the pond.
Truly loving the wood
and coal harvested
by fury known
for hundreds
of years, each peak
leaving no trace.
Sails sewn into my city life.
Long lenses which see
beyond stable vision, a gift
from my Grandfather,
although shaky we
both have become.
Maps for free
guide me, around the short-cut,
possibly for lunch. Seagulls
sweep keeping distance
from Ultimate Day.
Conjured wake
approaches, and
I am ready for another.
Dying engine, capable of
silencing the clams.
