The "There" There

Where the sea is sharpest, it is joining the land.
It sounds like a pine branch giving in to wind, weight.
And then, where the sea is sharpest, it is
joining the land again. Another splash
like a hand grazing cellophane.
And, stopping there, there being the point
where the trees run in a slight wind, their roots
ajar on the rocks, the ocean sounds
like a field of slow wheat.
Past the shadows of the pines leaning
under the sunlight, past the moment I
realize the dream I am having has such
narrow fingers, just enough to reach
into morning, a fox appears as
a scrub in the shadows and then becomes
lacquered in sunlight. I watch the fox,
hear the sea. Standing here is like having the pines’

knack for moonlight
when you’re in love. By which I mean a body
burns and carries itself as best it can
with whatever it finds in itself.
Imagine: a fish in the stomach of a fox swept out
to sea by a tide. At once satisfied and tumbling.
I don’t know why I keep having this dream.
But the sea is sharpest there
where it joins the land — it leans
sometimes into a small shadow of itself —
it sounds like a cane tapping
in an empty meeting room. It sounds
like a boy knocking on an empty aquarium.
It is there where the sea is beautiful still.

Copyright © 2006 Paul Gibbons All rights reserved
from The Modern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission