What prepares each day for the light that equals day?
The salt encrusted pilings, the tideline, the sure, measurable distance
between here and there
And whatever else might enter the catalog of this
Disquieting ordinariness of morning.
A pot of geraniums is set on the sill. A bit of rust shows on the lip of
a blue enameled washbasin.
The salt creek at high tide is backed up with its brine.
It turns from black to green to russet
As the sun moves through its stations, its slow, tolerant procession.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 7 Number 8, on page 40
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