From their house on the hill
in a land without seasons
he watched the seasons accumulate.
 
When he climbed the walk each night
the changing tides of blood
roared and quaked within his ears.
 
Behind his eyes one could sense
imagined vistas, improbable lifetimes,
the wayward gaze of a solitary male.
 
Water dripped in the clawed tub,
covered his chest but left his belly
exposed like some great shaggy raft.
 
As the children thundered on the stairs
their arms and voices thickened,
their hair ran from blond to brown.
 
As he swept the meager piles of leaves
the bells were being pulled within him
sure and steady as dripping water.
 
One night dreaming or sleepless
he stumbled barefoot into the garden
and flung himself upon the ground.
 
He lay on his back in the moist earth
with arms spread, as if he had nothing
more to embrace than the empty sky.
 
He knew he was really a sailor,
a rake, a poet with bushy brows,
a great judge of horses and women.
 
Behind him the house shuddered,
in a slow explosion of grinding rock
began to slide toward the sea.
 
His feet bleeding from holiday glass,
seasons and dark tides changing,
tomorrow he would mend that leak.

First appeared in Berkeley Poets Cooperative

 
 
 

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