Like a wisp in the night
saying aloud, "Like a wisp in the night
I am gone," to Lukas and Chip—
walking out of work at the Tex-Mex joint,
into the sidewalk curve
not harried or stressed out about . . .
I drive the history of rte 1 between
Newburyport and Salisbury, where the stalks
of marsh grass look lost
& ironbound amongst the low
tide puddles at noon—
for the time of year when the fog
looks like it belongs
to velvet, glove-wearing hands:
a handful of homes, one basketball hoop
pitched to the ground face first
and a scatter of boats
laid up on stilts
wrapped in a milky laminate,
reminiscent of death
or some other less intrusive
form of waiting.
I don't forget Mike's package store tho,
or my last name . . .
And how the sign,
gouged, looks like the wind
painted it blue.
Ask the kittens, our counterparts in faith,
who living in a box
behind Kitten's Strip Joint,
(so near to the Paws 4 Play)
what will bring their nights
a faultless sleep. This tendency towards
proper vision is trite.
2
On the radio Broadcaster Biello
gives the weather
for the North Country:
"Into the morning
and throughout the upward finish
of your day, we shall see,
the windspeed increase gradually,
the rain tearing finely
&! pushing down the few
of you it hates.
Remember! Don't furrow your brow
out there, Big Sky can see!"
