VIEW FROM THE PROW
The borrowed baby clings one-armed
and drools pearls on my shoulder.
The hitch in his breathing slows
to a steady rhythm, though
whether it is slow as in before sleep
is unclear, my radar untrained.
The borrowed dog slumps to the floor
in front of the television, guarding
against the unexpected. These
are the voyages in my livingroom
the windswept house blazing
against the blanket of darkness.
The swing of the secular year
ticks toward stillness, the pause
before new momentum rushes us
into some unpredictable tidal pool.
And I know that if one valve were opened
which is meant to be closed, one
closed which is meant to be opened
I would not be able to stand here
awestruck by the burning gold
of the four-thirty setting sun.
If you can't see the audio player embedded at the top of the post, you can download prow.mp3.