Only a sixth sense
of faith or fear, whichever's meant,
sways in the balance.
3
Through the porthole of my mind
memory ships oars and glides
upon the sea outside.
Whose hand was on the tiller,
what buoy marked the shoals or
whether there was another
I do not know. A hazy twilight
lay over the gray water, and I
heard the distant horn of time
blow once or twice in warning,
while seagulls squatted on the beach,
windless without wings.
And I thought, will it be like that
on the coast of my setting, mast
and sun obscured by fact?
4
Beyond the eye's threshold
a light swings in the door,
blurred by the wind and blown
like smoke across the dunes
for ghosts who wander through
in search of missing clues.