Sunrise over Chappaquiddick

come, sit with me on the porch 
of the Harbor View hotel, look out 
over the scrub pines, the dunes, 
Edgartown harbor, -- 
                                       try to block out
the lighthouse blinking on and off 
in the right side of our brain -- 

focus on the sunrise colors 
getting brighter over the dark thin 
curving line of land -- the female 
silhouette resting on the pastel sheets, 
the rippling water bed --
                                       suddenly, the pop, 
there it is, a crack, a thin nail 
in the center, then a dome half up 
and glowing -- now a ball so bright 

we shouldn't look but do --
the ball shrivels into a disc -- 
the disc becomes fuzzy -- 

then a dark spot
before our eyes.



The Legally Blind

middle-aged woman in the aqua jacket
skipping along the deserted beach -- 

her dark hair flowing in the stiff, cold, 
but soon to be spring breeze -- her arms 
flapping like the wings of a cormorant 
shaking off the cold film, warming up, 
getting ready to fly. 
                                stops a moment -- 

looks eastward, takes in the pure 
white foam, the large full silver moon 
just above the horizon -- the wide expanse 
of azure waves streaked with reflections 
of reflections of sunset -- 
                                her smile

all the while -- 
humming a children's tune -- 

with the unspoken words: 
                                "I see the moon,
and the moon sees me."



The Bed

the large king size bed -- its wrought 
iron curls and whirls, dominates 
our room at the Harbor view Hotel

the entwined metal vines, the sprawling
hieroglyphic headboard, and four 
twisted licorice posts -- each 

sprouting four black leaves with 
a strange bud, a trinity of piled stones 
in the center, in ascending order -- 

like the figures we left 
on the rock altar on the beach . . . 

looking up at the canopy, the thin 
black lines, gently sloping iron ropes -- 
graceful curves, halves of a human form 
divine ambling diagonally above and 
across the bed, meeting in the center, 
forming a small communion table 
on which yet another three stone 
offering stands . . . 

later, when I close my eyes, I see 
the well-wrought metal lines -- 
molten heat, light -- above me, 

glowing orange-peach -- the color 
of the just risen sun.



Through the Binoculars

the sunset over the sound at Menemsha
is even more beautiful, more intense,
the orange, the peach, even more 
delicious, the sweet juices spill
from the sky into the wine dark sea,

from our lips into the chilled 
April air, a sigh slips (an age old 
old age message, in italics and bold -- 

(the nearer the end, the quicker the descent.)

Zoom in on the sun, itself, so ripe, so plump, 
glowing, suspended a 1/2 inch above the rim 
of this playground world.

Watch it descend gracefully, with dignity, 
balance for a split second on the teeter-
totter horizon, so composed, so radiant, 
as it bows to the set -- 

(so easy, I could do it too, if I knew
that tomorrow I would rise again.)

Put down the binoculars -- the colors 
in the western sky become an ordinary glaze, 
so common, such a lack of blaze, "Ho,hum," 
they say "just the death of another day."


Beneath the Cliffs of Annisquam

At low tide, on driftwood, looking
at the thin slightly darker grey line 
of Cutty Sark under the vacant, haze 

grey sky and over the bright aqua fading 
into light lime sea -- the horizon 
broken by this one rock, this domed head 

with a patch of pure white guano hair, 
a dark shadow ear and nape of neck -- 
the whole top above the white water line, 

a shell of this one giant clam rock -- 
murky brown red clay juices from its 
last catch oozing through its green kelp 

beard, and mingling in the cold tingling 
waves -- its natty gold fungus mustache 
over a yawning mouth -- 
                                      that might snap -- 
a shutter when you least expect it.



The Pillbox

I

or part of a lighthouse, or fort
from some 150 or 200 year old war --

a cement square -- its left front corner 
deeply embedded in the soft sand --

this pockmarked cement chamber, 
this partially buried burial vault -- 

this random die tossed, perhaps, by 
Annisquam, himself, from the top 

of his clay cliffs . . .

II

a relic with a small square trap-door 
opening in the roof, the only entrance 

you can fit through -- 
                                        climb down 
the iron rung ladder, enter this 
cement cell, lie down on the sand 

inside parallel to the beach, and enjoy 
this private nook where you can lie 

and look through the same thin tilted 
crack that shafts of light or guns 

once poked through -- a cell of your 
very own where your mind can fire 

volley after volley, fire forever 
at the always approaching, 

ever retreating sea . . .



School of Hard Rocks

swimming in the noon sea, their 
dark bald heads covered with curls 
of sunlit foam, then uncovered --

under, then above the surface of 
the water tinged reddish brown from 
the clay beneath -- an amphibious fleet, 

visible, invisible, then visible -- again 
and again -- an ominous force approaching 
the beach which has nothing but sand

and pebbles to fling at the snouts 
of these prehistoric creatures emerging 
from the murky depths, faint traces 

of blood spilling from the corners 
of their mouths, down their chins
in day before easter tide.



See if You Can See

the cliffs of Annisquam, the baked red 
clay faces with tufts of beige locks -- 
haughty gods, looking down on the sea,
on you and me

and the waves -- deferential, advancing, 
withdrawing, making their offerings -- 
deposits -- neat piles of small rocks 
at our feet

at the same time -- you ask -- 
father and mother -- one world 
and another -- 
                                 impossible -- 

no matter how fast we move our head,

or how tightly we close our eyes, 

or how intensely we concentrate 
on keeping our ears open -- 

impossible -- no matter how often 
we recite these words.

Leaning on the Plaque

the official dedication -- the clay cliffs 
of Annisquam -- a national landmark -- 

you can see why -- 

mountain peaks of multicolored clay 
carved out of miles of cliff beneath
a deep cobalt sky -- beige, black,
brown, and red all looking down 

on the long strip of beach with 
an oblong stone in the center that 
looks like a large freshly baked loaf 
of bread, its top a rust brown crust 
over the pale flesh body

and at the clear liquid tinted red 
from the clay floor, bathing the cliff's 
feet, lapping at the foundation -- the water 
magically transformed into wine

bread and wine -- enough for one
and all, for each and every peak
of multicolored clay to partake, 
enjoy, and live!



Lines Written for the Powers that Be Responsible

for the law recently enacted and strictly 
enforced which forbids me from taking red clay 
from the foot of the Cliffs of Annisquam 
and prohibits me from using it to decorate 
my body and my face -- the law, which, 
fortunately, doesn't mention poems, 

                                              I see 
your problem, if every tourist picked up 
a handful, there would, in just an eon 
or so, be no cliffs left, and 

                                              I agree 
it is embarrassing, distasteful, politically 
incorrect, and downright dumb to play games 
with another's culture and/or religion -- 
like Atlanta Braves' fans with their 
tomahawk chops . . . 

                                               I, too, 
share your contempt for the spectre --
so ugly -- the image of tourists with clay 
painted faces dancing around a campfire, 
whooping "wah, wah, wah, . . ." 
I do,

                                     but, still, it's sad 
to see that you've come to the white man's 
way of thinking -- 
                                     so concerned with 
the ownership of property, and prescriptive 
"Thou shall not"s etched in stone tablets,

that so much of your moral high ground 
has eroded -- that with every trinket, 
every "T" shirt, every hot dog sold (even 
with your better value than the wares 
in up island shops) you lose a grain or two, 
a little standing, 

                                           become a tad more like 
your Pequot cousins -- (proprietors of Foxwoods 
where an 80 year old immigrant loses a large chunk 
of his life savings in a high stakes poker game --
his four queens not quite good enough to beat 
the dealer's four kings) . . .


Has it gone too far? Could you, would you 
ever be my friend? 
                                       Could you, 
would you (and your Pequot cousins) descend 
from your cliffs to meet me (and the child 
that rooted for the Braves in Boston, in 1948, 
and beyond) here on this public beach, 
in the shade of the slanted, fallen, 
cement pillbox, 1/3 buried in the sand, 

and take this offering -- would you, 

could you please shake this hand, 
stained with red clay --

Come, make our day.