Black Crosses

What about him, who stayed
on Ithaca that was in fact Fire

Island, climbing a sandstone grade
and laughing, resting at the crest

to watch a tanker and sundown.
There are too few terms for

gradients of love. They ran
in long coats that turned

to capes. He caught up; she
stopped; he stopped; it is not love,

but lailailai! A whiskey light cross-
cut the strand and the woman

through the man. They stood
spread-armed as guardians

against omniscience, footnailed
to their shadows, the black crosses.

Copyright © 2008 T. Zachary Cotler All rights reserved
from The American Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission