perfect curtains of algae

almost as one —

and the phytoplankton rise

oxygen levels , a radiance

in the Sound’s center trough

up and out toward the shoals

atmosphere , estuary - -

confluent tides—

this upwelling : of organisms , of winds and waters

drifts of nourishing darkness , light , salt—

hydrogen—and with this /

exchange

Drift three—

tidal resonance /

in the sea floor

above the sea floor

now under the tide

watershed and upswell

of marsh and beach edge ,

of tidal forests , mangrove

swamps

- - expansions

to be of moraines

and sills

little necks - - cherry

stones, of osprey

porcupine and river otter

whelks

urchin ,

to be of mudflat fox

of periwinkle ,

and the winter skate’s purse - -

to work this good darkness

into the shallows

this vital brackish water

resuscitation

of every coastal stream

And he said to himself, if primates, rodents, and hoofed mammals each have their place, so must noodles, tinned fruit, and cheeses. If hoofed mammals are channelled into camels, pigs, and goats, then let there be cheeses soft and blue and smoked. And let these divide again into lines such as curly coat, tame, babybel, cheshire. And shortbread, he muttered, will behave in similar manner: have it come low-fat, triangular, and with pieces of ginger like the lemurs in assortments, big-eyed and striped. So he went on. The power was his. And now and then there came a surprise like an ice cream the flavor of sprouts, or a lemur he christened a mouse; both something of a novelty these days and which most are happy to go without.

“small town” is

Largely a state of mind...

—James Merrill, “The Changing Light at Sandover”

All the sailboats in the harbor

face North. I can see twenty-four

from your study window.

Overhead, large white birds fly around

in the September glow.

The sky is baby blue without a single cloud.

The house at 25 Main Street finally sold.

Isn’t that where Venture Smith lived?

He was the son of a prince, who purchased

his freedom. History cannot be unlived.

Chez Perenyi, I visited David’s ashes

under a chestnut where edible mushrooms,

Phallus ravenelii, now grow, and Libby,

a rescue dog from Tennessee,

nuzzled me and licked my lashes.

At the Farmers’ Market, the cheesemonger

couldn’t stop talking. A young man at Nana’s bakery

gave me a brioche and smiled kindly.

And Mrs. Purity, of Purity Farm (I love her peaches),

stepped right out of a small Dutch painting.

All night I hear the clinking halyard lines.

Before dawn, I buy a coffee at Tom’s Newsstand,

then sit with your big Petit Larousse, La Fontaine,

and my ardor. September is a time to feel the light,

write, scratch out, write, nap, walk, begin again.

I am too afraid of jellyfish to swim

with Jonathan out to the breakwater;

instead, I sit with Penny at her long

dining table and eat beef bourguignon.

You make me feel I almost belong

There is a moment

on the bridge,

piles of clothes

along the margin.

The pile

is behind you,

the moment is

you looking

in the rearview.

Somewhere,

a clean white

minivan,

a family

gathering

fallen luggage.

You are

the margins.

The moment

is looking

back at you.

The bridge

is between

you and

the moment

you look in

the rearview.

It is only

the bridge,

it is in the shape

of you, the bridge.

The bridge is you,

you a part of it,

somewhere.

The bridge

is nothing,

only

the shape

of

it

now.

It is behind you.

After the painting “That Which I Should Have Done I Did Not Do (The Door)” by Ivan Albright, Art Institute of Chicago, completed 1941

The train wires quivering in the wind, I cannot see

their origin, what they supply, for whom—

but when I’m on the subway car alone, I think of the twin

blue soaps on the sink’s cracked shelf—how you love

that they match, how I know that you love this.

Married, the script crusts in the hamper, launders

in the air. In the Art Institute together I watch other couples

and guess the age of their love

from how they look at the art. There was the morning,

a decade ago, in the Warhol—you touched my shoulder

through my coat, enough to pool desire

where I most wanted you to touch me.

Today I watch you hold both my black coat and yours

and it’s difficult to tell the two apart.

This book from my therapist talks about bids

for long loves, an issuance on the wire—in which

I leap from the origin in faith that you’re holding the line.

To begin seduction is a bid, to request more blue soap a bid,

to clean your mirror’s scumming face, knowing

you’ll smile in its shine. To offer a price, or else

decide a sentence. To walk ahead of you in the museum,

your scout, and say, come look at this one, the Albright, the moody colors,

the ringed hand almost out of view—I know you’ll love it.

Albright hoarded the painting’s artifacts for four weeks

and painted them daily for ten years. Perhaps there was a room

in his house where these objects lived and died, the room

where—in time—he didn’t need them anymore: painting

his creation entirely from memory, one square inch per day.

things don't die or remain damaged

but return: stumps grow back hands,

a head reconnects to a neck,

a whole corpse rises blushing and newly elastic.

Later this vision is not True:

the grandmother remains dead

not hibernating in a wolf's belly.

Or the blue parakeet does not return

from the little grave in the fern garden

though one may wake in the morning

thinking mother's call is the bird.

Or maybe the bird is with grandmother

inside light. Or grandmother was the bird

and is now the dog

gnawing on the chair leg.

Where do the gone things go

when the child is old enough

to walk herself to school,

her playmates already

pumping so high the swing hiccups?

What is a scar if not the memory of a once open wound?

You press your finger between my toes, slide

the soap up the side of my leg, until you reach

the scar with the two holes, where the pins were

inserted twenty years ago. Leaning back, I

remember how I pulled the pin from the leg, how

in a waist-high cast, I dragged myself

from my room to show my parents what I had done.

Your hand on my scar brings me back to the tub

and I want to ask you: What do you feel

when you touch me there? I want you to ask me:

What are you feeling now? But we do not speak.

You drop the soap in the water and I continue

washing, alone. Do you know my father would

bathe my feet, as you do, as if it was the most

natural thing. But up to now, I have allowed

only two pair of hands to touch me there,

to be the salve for what still feels like an open wound.

The skin has healed but the scars grow deeper—

When you touch them what do they tell you about my life?

Tiger swallowtails hover over Russian sage—

I smell eucalyptus where there is no

eucalyptus and locate summer in rain.

Like bats emerging out of a cave at dusk,

a thread of grief unfurls in the sky.

Neither you nor I can stop the planting

of mines in a field or the next detonation.

I unclog a drip line along a fence;

in May, lilacs arced over the road in a cascade

of purple blossoms. Now, stilled in a minute

of darkness, I listen to bamboo leaves

unfurl above into sunshine. Untangling

a necklace composed of interlocking

gold chains, then lifting it, I trace

joy, fear, bewilderment, bliss, a this

resplendent in my fingertips. I slip inside

a strawberry runner that extends root, leaf,

then stand in morning starlight and inhabit a song