Poem [cloudy stills of whiskey]

We watched the men working
the cloudy stills of whiskey,
from the balcony we saw
them sample the hot mash
and push back their caps
and say By God! Autumn
has the most perfect days.
But the jars were small
and forty dollars. We left
them in their damp boots
and climbed the pitted steps
to the highest point in
the county. Trees, trees, berries
of deepest black on red
stems, nothing but a woodpecker
sharpening his tools around us.
Our giant shadows fell upon
the town and they laid
waste to everything with gentle
adumbrations then darkened the harbor.




Poem [Indian summer]

Indian Summer. Can I say
that? Its beauty warms our
beautiful bones. Let it stay
that way, it’s rare we
grant them anything. Give them
back blue & green Staten Island
today, give them back the
oysters from the bay. Enormous
insects and stately lawn tents.
Even our sloops and brigantines,
give them these, for today.
With one hand, and take
it back with the other.




Poem [if your flag is up]

I think if your flag
is up or down it
tells them something. Your boats
shoulder through huge daisies. Blue
day held at bay by
the serendipitous tent. I got
us some clams for lunch.
Open them: the world opens
again after a long silence.
I will break the silence.
My son furls the jib
of a walnut shell boat.
Put forth on the harbor
in your walnut shell sloop.
If I do not return
in time to tell you
more remember to set forth.