I have trouble, weeding out streets/ fit to walk on. / In the snow of a recent nor ‘easterner, / I come back. / I’m a reluctant customer/ of a bottle of milk and a dime newspaper. I could maybe/ switch the throttle/to the next phase. /A jamboree of poses/ looms behind me/ in a city embracing the sea, /Day old mail roasts/ in searing flame/in bounds of a circumference. / Down to New Bedford, / where Nor ‘easterners, /one guesses/ cease in a sump.
I wake to your still presence on me. /I turn when the wind hushes. / I feel myself:/ heartbeat, hand and feet. /They report fevers along the lifeline, /guided to recesses, / In downward gait, / deep gust tamed. In absence of rancor, / sea and sky gust equally/ by all our calculations/ the boundaries of the Stellar Marine.