Stephen Crane in Longport
Occasionally the weak survive
because the god that doesn't exist
wants to give us something
to misinterpret.
That ís what Crane was thinking
as he washed up on Longport beach.
He seemed to remember the afterlife
had been a boat forever lost
in the doldrums of the sea. Then a storm,
the boat's captain thrown overboard,
suddenly captain of nothing,
waves buffeting him and his crew
until they surrendered and went under.
He saw a man, suntanned, hairy-chested,
squatting near a dune, eating something
he'd pulled fom a bag. It was
(by the expression on the man's face)
bitter though the man kept on eating
as if he couldnít get enough. Crane felt
he was dreaming a writer's dream;
he'd arrived in a world
he himself had made.
By this time many people from town
were making their way toward him.
No, they walked right by
as if they were pursuing the horizon.
It ís pointless, Crane wanted to say,
wherever you're all going.
But he knew they'd think he was lying,
or maybe not even hear him.
Stephen Dunn
Posted over on Quarterly West
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