The Shore

So the tide forgets, as morning
Grows too far delivered, as the bowls 
Of rock and wood run dry.
What is left seems pearled and lit, 
As those cases
Of the museum stood lit
With milk jade, rows of opaque vases 
Streaked with orange and yellow smoke. 
You found a lavender boat, a single 
Figure poling upstream, baskets 
Of pale fish wedged between his legs. 
Today, the debris of winter
Stands stacked against the walls, 
The coils of kelp lie scattered
Across the floor. The oil fire
Smokes. You turn down the lantern 
Hung on its nail. Outside,
The boats aligned like sentinels. 
Here beside the blue depot, walking 
The pier, you can see the way
The shore
Approximates the dream, how distances 
Repeat their deaths
Above these tables and panes of water— 
As climbing the hills above
The harbor, up to the lupine drifting 
Among the lichen-masked pines, 
The night is pocked with lamps lit 
On every boat offshore,
Galleries of floating stars. Below,
On its narrow tracks shelved
Into the cliff’s face,
The train begins its slide down
To the warehouses by the harbor. Loaded 
With diesel, coal, paychecks, whiskey, 
Bedsheets, slabs of ice—for the fish, 
For the men. You lean on my arm, 
As once
I watched you lean at the window; 
The bookstalls below stretched a mile 
To the quay, the afternoon crowd 
Picking over the novels and histories. 
You walked out as you walked out last 
Night, onto the stone porch. Dusk 
Reddened the walls, the winds sliced 
Off the reefs. The vines of the gourds 
Shook on their lattice. You talked 
About that night you stood
Behind the black pane of the French 
Window, watching my father read some long 
Passage
Of a famous voyager’s book. You hated 
That voice filling the room,
Its light. So tonight we make a soft 
Parenthesis upon the sand’s black bed. 
In that dream we share, there is
One shore, where we look out upon nothing 
And the sea our whole lives;
Until turning from those waves, we find
One shore, where we look out upon nothing 
And the earth our whole lives. 
Where what is left between shore and sky 
Is traced in the vague wake of 
(The stars, the sandpipers whistling) 
What we forgive. If you wake soon, wake me.