Port Levy, Listening
Where did this knowing come from?
Prattling at the prow of the yacht.
Lipping at the limbs of stone.
And in the hiss of kelp, heaving
like your rising gorge,
or a child's bad dream, strands
from the drowned gorgon's head.
And in the slow
vesicles of light
and maybe cross
Afterwards, beneath the macrocarpas
in the smells of sex and resin.
It was the way
and hurried back
You might have heard it then,
in that silence just before the words.
It was the end
which we did not
Where does the knowing come from?
Noiseless in the branches,
muted on the moonlit water.
Voices, voices. And the long night
slips beneath our eyelids.