Wednesday, April 02, 2014

Fine Grit Sandpaper

As we watch the waves
roll away, a rib of reef
appears, all sharp edges.
This is not the time to
walk into the Caribbean
and swim, not with the beach
bar so close under a Grenadian sun.
Even in January, I can feel
my skin burn, a slow-cooked roast. 
Wind from the north lifts
the hula palms’ skirts.  An osprey
circles, as though searching for
a parking spot.  The book which
you are reading lies on your chest,
rising, falling with your steady
breathing.  I rattle your lounge
with a casual kick.

Are you there?

Are you there —forty-four yeas
together  and I wonder if
you’re there.  Do I question
the sun in the same way,
or this ocean when, at night,
half-deaf, all I can hear is the
air conditioner’s drone?
Are you the person with whom
I climbed to the Acropolis, walked
on the frigid desert of a glacier,
tried to lose myself in Venetian alleys?
Are you there, on this beach,
or does our life together now follow
the Davis model — small imperfections
on the peneplain,  all the real action
buried in time?

Fine grit sandpaper was invented
for time.  Smooth the rough edges.


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