What We Are

stars on the water

still but for the ripples

night heron makes

when it strikes

a sudden pierce

no fight, no thrash

just easy death

then wide the wings

in our headlights

as it lifts, afraid

of what we might be

and certainly are

parked

with nowhere to go

but into each other

Surf

It took three weeks for us to do

what I first imagined upon arrival:

met after the kids went to bed,

moonlit, shared courtyard

We’d been calling it summer

but all that light was

still weeks away—and your breast

in my hand, my mouth

almost made me believe

I could be again

something I’m not

How the predictability of the surf

is sometimes undone

by a single wave

stronger than the rest and

bearing down with

a ferocity that surprises, even though

we’ve outgrown surprise,

we who don’t care about the others

who’ve gathered to watch

each in their shadows, too timid

or respectful to breach the bow—

and there’s no wind or sail,

wheel or star, just this

one repeating motion

to bring us back

Wild Grapes

The college boys wrestle where

water comes to sand, laughing

mostly, as they find the right hold

to bring the other down

into the surf: hook of elbow, nook

of knee, ankle lifted and tossed.

When one gets a finger in the eye, they stop

and sunscreen each other like lovers

—the many places we can’t reach alone.

How carefully—do you see?—

he first brushes sand from

the other’s brow and waist, underjaw

scapula, neck. Remember

when we broke up, you chided

I’d never find another as good as you?

The tide is out and there’s no moon.

Six offshore rigs red-light the horizon.

I’ve come this far in a mask

that, with time, has become

my favorite. Here there are so many

wild grapes the gardener fills three sacks

for the dumpster. Each apartment has

a balcony where a widow or widower sits

alone with one glass of wine

as night comes on, still warm,

the ancient hunger

just part of the hum.