John Muro
The tides have fallen back from shore
and the harbor’s become a sprawl of
whimsical ruin, wide and still and without
ruffle, and I can see how its slender
shine stretches out and traverses the
Sound on its way past dry-docked
trawlers towards the horizon where
it bends then fractures at some unseen
angle towards a heaven that’s draped
in coastal-fog grey and the space
between air and water is difficult to
discern since these are more pallid,
impoverished clouds than Constable’s
bloated spires of splendor and you
fear the transcendent blue that once
emerged between them may soon be
extinguished altogether because this
is, after all, a soft-fallen, yet cold and
comfortless, winter in New England
where light is always receding and
afternoon air is wet and weighted
and without song, as the few remaining
birds are all dark fury and muted
bluster and beauty must be something
wished for, pillaged or cobbled together
from the tideline’s thatched decay.
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