Sights from the Georgia Shore

Dear Lisette, I’m glad you drove.
These Southern high windows are wonderful.
A farmer strolls over furrowed fields,
and five drops pool under her water glass.

From a littoral point of view: a fish
wiggles and a mossy mountain laughs;
An anemone sees a ship motor past.
And at the ocean’s alluvium, a girl
sticks her red tongue into the wind
to taunt a rain drenched Man-O-Ray.

We took ten trips around that cul-de-sac,
going as fast as we could, round and round;
We set the phonograph at low, so slow,
that we could watch the tide from no place.

If I cared to find my pen, I’d praise Georgia.
No need to fake a trade: the pottery here is handmade.




















So We May Be Here

I kiss the scorpion, gone gold, from aging.
Here, the yellow jackets threaten the hand-
icapped. Shards of bark. Purple gazing ball,
a mind rises through history’s geyser crack.
The falcon’s child drinks heavily
in some dingy port town. A slab of dry
wall stands erect on a green hillside,
carried out by who knows whom? When or why?