Gull cry and love cry run with the wind
then hover where the wrecked hall sprawls
rusty and rudderless in July sunshine.
Now both are lost where the boat,
on its side and lonely' hove to long ago.
old roses climb the fishouse wall,
weathered and beaten brown;
They bob like buoys on the turn of tide,
pink and sweet as unsalted guts.
On summer's cliffs too sheer for us
we lay where lichen gilded the great stones
and juniper haunted crevices,
huge fissures where the body
wakened like a child
(later gin could not bridge them,
its medicine a clear dream
of the green places gone foggy).
The mailboat roiled - coming and going -
her wake a wash of queasy islands
leeward and out of reach.
Just out of reach like love
or the small bleached deer bone
Ledge-bound and white as snow,
frail relic of summer remembering itself,
always remembering itself.
that carries you the rest of the way.