BY THE SEA, WHEN FAR AWAY IN ROOM WITH A CLOSED DOOR
Recalling the sea oats on sand dunes,
What is there to remember?
The wind-uplifted sea spume on the gray
Of her dark wind-swept hair,
The flutter of water
into fragments and flight.
Wings of water without bodies flying
Towards patches of blue, seaside flowers.
My forecast of forlorn-ness myself,
Soon to fall again, soon to see again
The orange flames from a silver sword.
To see the pale blue eyes as lapwings
That can sparkle, but not fly,
No matter how close, always distant.
She, ankle-deep by me in shore water,
Yet far-away, where the wind shakes pine needles.
I foresee the future, a white room, empty
Except for a white chair, a glass of wine
On a white rug.
Duane Locke
Posted over on Sentinel Poetry
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