Poem after Spencer Reece

The tusk-bustling skies are more than I can shade
with their thin northern strips dipped diagonally
across the dock and the meadow clash of cows
clocked into spotted standstill.  I fill a coffee
cup and crop a sidelong look through cigarette smoke
upon your morning stance—you last expansive.

The eastern bay breaks weed-drawn into the shallow ponds
as our lean off the boat reflects the taking all our
time took before here—it sucks me up until our purpose
reappears.  Our want is five feet off the shore with
its hooks; we can see the bite and feel before the catch
and I am breathless in explaining all the rest.

The bonfire beat of a pulse through the fog’s retreat
claps at my lids and sandbars this longing a suburbia.
Of mileage, we break the drive and off-road this silence
to survive; for a turn and a turn and a deep tide
as the water divides its search into sand lines and how
I drink in it, soften here, love away the coffins.

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