The Guardian

In the pale Peqonic morning
one boat only emerges from the mist
toward Shelter Island
with one man aboard
around the landing and crescent channel
skimming the shoreline
slows down looking, looking
barely stopping and
motors away through the silveresque

A spirit hovers over the bed
guarding my dream
waiting for a near-waking moment
to slip in

Aroused by light and birdsong, I stir
with swollen lips, thirsty, full

The subtle warm air
radiates from inside the bedcovers
meets the straying April morning chill
and shimmers imperceptably
across the thin mask of ether

I am a silken pond inside
bathed by unremembered caress and kiss
lillied banks and trembling pulse
responding to some invisible reach

I do not move, I pretend still to sleep
lest it stop

E-mail:databirds@aol.com


Back to Poetry Page
[Back to top]