From The Tybee Island Lighthouse
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1
At the top
the light goes round
and round.
At the bottom,
there is no light
at all.
I can never go
back down,
but I wish the stairs
were not spiraled so.
They go round
and round,
and the night becomes
a few dim
consolations,
scattered over glass.
Each time the light
goes past,
it turns my face
and other people
and places
into a circle
of thin constellations.
2
After
the white light
there’s the blue light,
and after that,
there’s nothing.
The pavilion
and the ocean liner
go on
just as they did
before, waiting
for someone else
to discover them.
The slim girl,
thinking
about nothing,
keeps on swimming
out to sea,
my son
curled about her heart.
The light,
the light that searches
for the bottom,
does not replace
the dark.
3
It almost
puts one to sleep,
the turning
and turning.
I never REALLY see
anything
except the ocean liner
moving slowly across
the horizon,
the slim girl
swimming
and swimming.
I hear the sounds,
the indecipherable sounds
inside, down
the stairwell,
and I listen.
I listen to the dark,
where the center
always breaks,
and nothing ever
really
keeps.
4
I thought
there would be others
at the top.
I thought
the slim girl
could come along too.
I do not know
what I sought
up here,
the lights
having scattered so,
and all my pages
turned to glass.
And the old folks
along the shore,
who have never seen
the ruined castles
in Spain,
think everything
would change
if their only son
would only
come down to shore
again.
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| The postman says
he will discontinue the mail
if the tree limbs are not cut.
After the storm,
gladiolas and morning glories
cling to a dying oak.
Sparrows and seagulls
feed on crumbs
leftover by drunken seamen.
The ocean liner
is still moving slowly across
the bleak horizon.
Without saying goodbye,
the slim girl is still
swimming and swimming.
Pages of old books
turn with their marginal marks,
searching for answers.
Here on Tybee Island
tangled grape vines strangle
maples and willows.
The channel markers
and beacons are all gone,
but this salty seawall remains.
The broken screens
of these beach house windows
survive the malcontent sea.
Lean white hounds wait
near old railroad tracks
for the lights beyond the darks.
Fog horns sound up
and down the Savannah River
through the damp, dark nights.
If you ever come back,
don’t try to revive the willows.
We could… plant a few small palms.
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(The roses are still there,
the candle we did not burn,
the bed we did not remake,
the rivers we did not run.)
This –- is a broken shell
in a sea of weeds, and there’s
our walkway in the dark.
I search the streets nights
wondering where you are
or watch planes coming in,
remembering Chicago’s Lake
and vendors on Wells Street.
So, what if we didn’t cross
the bridge El Conquistador?
(Does man really have
his own strings to pull?)
We stood at the entrance
of fireplace and water,
calculating what we had to lose,
mine a domestic dilemma,
yours a bit of comfort,
friends and respectabilities.
If we had not met, the world
would blame ME for dying.
We’ll not see the windows
become white, you and I,
together against the night.
You’ll slumber into other arms,
I’ll go off to make another
sunset, clouds, and discover
another city, another street.
The most difficult thing
to remove won’t be the roses.
I knew They would perish,
but where you sat and turned,
the way you removed your shoes
will not be so easy. Well…,
everybody deserves at least
… one … disaster.
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