The Animal

the sea, thrashing wildly,
             in spastic reflex,
              an animal
that doesn't like being bathed
in that eerie half light of sun through fog,

              the sea, rising on its haunches,
coursing wildly over and between rocks,
throwing itself with abandon at the shore --

One can see only one wave at a time
coming in out of the fog -- each throwing forth
a scum of rabid froth -- each snapping
at the rocks, and nipping at the heels of the beach

              the frenzy quickened
by human eyes looking on,
              by a human voice,
"something out of a novel," she says.

"No, no!" the sea responds in renewed fury,
"this frenzy is real,"

              hurling
those single waves -- each more vicious
than the last --
                           taking its anger out
on the innocent rocks and sand,

              its anger at being exposed,

                           its anger at the sun
for burning that pale yellow hole
in the warm, protective gray blanket
of oblivion.

Mohegan Bluffs: Revisited

I
               The young couple
(with the baby sitting on the man's shoulders)
stands on the lookout platform,
              peering
into the gray gruel fog, at the soggy beach,
the large rock sentinels, the larger clay creatures
guarding the entrance to a nether world inhabited
by the 40 Mohegan warriors who were thrown
(or forced to jump) from these cliffs
over 500 years ago,

these guardians looming up out
of the misty depths --

              the young couple,
with the baby riding the man's shoulders,
leaves -- just as we arrive,
just as it starts to rain

II
              and we begin
the descent down the long winding stairs
to the beach.
             The rain
pelts us harder --
                           you wait,
while I hurry all the way to the bottom,
jump from the last step to the wet rocks,

search briefly for shelter --
              a cave,
a recess in the cliffs,
find none, return, meet you
1/3 the way down,
              poised,
waiting --

III
              We stand, in profile,
in the gusting wind and rain, our fingers
gripping the wire frame of our large
ugly umbrella to keep it from flying
inside out --

                           in profile --
lost in the somber scene, our silhouettes merging
with the umbrella, with the wet grey-black railing,
the black bushes, the beige clumps of matted grass
on the dark brown hillside --

              a part of the world-sadness,
one with the bleak foreground shapes and forms
the ominous background, one with those 40 shades,
this deep brown hallowed earth, the overcast
and weeping sky.

The Orange Granite Rock: Revisited

Later, behind Ballards, on our
orange granite rock,
              a moment
out of the mist
              the sun,
a shiny new dime, FDR's head peeping
through the fog --

                                        blushing --

                           the sea tinted --

the pulsing waves
              coming in cycles of three --

glistening seedless foam --
semen seeping into sand.

Pulling in the Rebound

nobody but we have seen -- will see

these large 8 ft. waves racing, pulling in
the rebound from the last wave off
the stone breaker, the graceful curling leap --
12 to 15 ft. depending --
              these waves, daring
mere mortals to try to capture their movement,
their swell, their surge, their spray, the rolling in,
the careening off, the receding, the converging,
the riotous, ecstatic meeting, the new surge
coming in --

all shades of shining white sparks
flying out of mist and gray-green sea
              ...

until suddenly an enforcer, a purposeful,
especially large wave springs out
of the cool mist, scales the breaker, and
soaks us to the skin

              (as if to say, "OK,
OK! wise guys, time to go home now!
You've seen enough.")

Coastal Flood Warnings

Next day, from the bluff above, refreshed,
we feel lucky to be looking down
                           on it all,
on new fog, same sun, same eerie light,
same sea surging over boulders on pebbly beach,
pouring in crevices between rocks
                           and further out --
over the patriarchal rock head,
treating that poor stone like an accused witch
in a water test, wave after wave submerging it,

the head rarely able to breathe.

Our Favorite Window

(What is your favorite window, and what do you see when you look out from it?" -- Michael Shields, proprietor, Juice N Java -- one of his twenty questions)

You n me in the pair of white wicker chairs
with bagels and tea, peaceful,

content at the small square
table with the three hand carved legs
merging into one
              (the table, sorta like
the one Emily sat at in her bedroom
looking out over Main st. in Amherst)

content, checking out the scrub pines alongside
the scraggly stone wall -- the boundary
marking the far side of the neighbor's lawn,
bisecting Calico Hill --
              and taking in the view
of rooftops: black, green, and red --
over staid white and grey houses,

our eyes following the street's yellow line,
an arrow pointing to the beach, the wet sand,
dark rocks, white surf, and blue, deep blue sea,

the whole quaint scene in slight haze -- mist
just thick enough to erase the mainland (America)
as the natives call it --
              so peaceful, till
just now we see the telephone wires,
the horizontal black lines, black scratches
on the clean pane, on the lens --

              "Like the lines
in bifocals -- when you don't think of them,
they're not there."

              "But, once thought of,
they're there to stay."

The Seedless Orange on the Beach

a spot of color, a hybrid,
just out of the waves' reach, preening

amidst a few dark plum-sized stones
casually strewn around a drab expanse
of sand --

              the seedless orange --

a sun in a sand-brown void
surrounded by scattered fragments
of asteroid and bones --

The Breather

              miles into our walk
in the fog along Crescent Beach, pausing
at the rock, about 5 ft. round
and flat on top
                       (like the willow stump
in our New Milford neighbor's lawn)

taking a breather, relaxing, sitting here
on this tree stump rock
                           with the sun,
a thin pale dime in the grey mist, behind us --
we know it's there -- glowing;
                           we can see
the brush of its rays painting the waves white,
so white they shine --
                           line after line
of fire and foam emerging from the grey void --

"You know, the ocean goes so far, so far back,
and we can't see it."

"But we know it's there"

-- like an absent character
whose portrait is on the mantel,
like the cut down willow --
                           the personality,
the rush, the brush of fine strands is there --

                           and here, influencing,
touching up every ripple on this shore.

Juice N Java

I
We wander in out of the rain,
into a small alcove of the Sea Breeze gallery,
21 people (mostly couples) in a narrow room,
small white tables cramped together, straight backed
plastic chairs, original paintings all over the walls --
one of the few places open -- till
whenever ...
                           the Modern Jazz Quartet
performs the introduction -- the notes linger,
dance around in our minds as we wait
leisurely for Michael, the proprietor, to put away
the scrabble game and finish his conversation
about last summer's poetry reading,
                                                     as we wait
to put in our order for hazelnut expresso,
white hot chocolate, granny caramel apple,
and chocolate thunder cake ...

II
we sit, watch our nextable neighbors
(five of them) play the tower game, you know,
gradually building the tower higher and higher,
with blocks so delicately removed from its own base
taking such care, until the one, inevitable
false move ...

the couple nearest the dessert case and counter --
intent on each other, the young woman,
adjusting her chair, feeding the man,
feeding him chocolate mud with her spoon ...

the older man across from us -- reading
his paperback -- the woman with him browsing
through the magazine with the Blake prints
and the Psyche poem ...

Blossom Dearie singing in the background ...

another couple playing Chinese checkers, interrupted
by the entrance of old friends,
they hadn't seen in awhile,
                           the tall man, standing
by their table, smiling amiably,
                          and the short woman, excited,
talking about teaching, her small animated,
Mediterranean hands in expressive motion --
"We've been married for eight years, and this
is the first one we're not students," she says ...
the tower falls -- the people at the table laugh,
the man responsible acts as if he's trying to hide
under the table, laughs loudest of all,

                                                      everyone pauses
except Sarah Vaughn, her "Someone to watch
over me" hovers, electrical, in the air ...


III
                          then the conversation,
the chatter resumes -- I continue jotting down
these improvisational notes,
                           until I feel
your hand on my forearm,

                          your thumb moving
slowly back and forth on my flannel shirt,
                           the warmth on my skin ...

you adjust my glasses -- look into my eyes
I return the gaze, drop my pen on the page,
graze in the hazel fields ...

Chinese Checkers

When the other couple is done,
we bring the game to our table --
the pieces are mostly there -- only one

marble is missing -- we're able
to use a dime -- the change
from our steaming hot

white chocolate -- a strange
token which goes in the last slot
as the contest begins --

the artwork on the wall
recedes -- out of reach
we are engaged, enthralled --

ghosts,
out of our skins,
we complement each

other -- your consistency (almost
always a jump of two or three)
and my occasionally

spectacular play -- seven, eight
or more in one turn -- create
a dynamic tension, we dangle

balanced in harmonious opposition --
caught up in a greater will --
until, finally, in your eyes, a trace

of triumph -- one move ahead of me
you glide your last green marble
into its final resting place

and your ten peas lie still
on my triangle,
in our circular plate.

On the Bluffs at Clayhead

On the towel under strange scraggly trees,
we are birds nesting in the hair of ol' Clayhead

in the crow's nest, looking fore and aft

you, looking out through his ancient eyes,
see layers of color,

                           strata of storm clouds
receding in the East --
                                         the purple
of wet grapes under dark vine leaves,
the deep blue of twilight --

the thin pink line at the horizon,

and the layers of ocean, the purple,
the deep blue, the blue-green,
the forest primeval sea --

wave after wave of pulsing color
rippling on your shore ...

me looking in, through mine own poor eyes,
through a channel of pale thighs, ...

                          (and later, in tranquility, thinking
of the magazine I picked up from a nearby table
at Juice N Java,
                           the magazine with the poem
on Psyche, her travails, and, finally,
her marriage to Eros --
                          and the birth of the soul.)

The Couple

on the beach,
                    in the fog --
                                     going out
as we are coming in --

They wave --
                      we lift
our American Airlines umbrella
in salute.