Late September

The Voice at 3:00 a.m.: Selected Late and New Poems (2002)

The mail truck goes down the coastCarrying a single letter.At the end of a long pierThe bored seagull lifts a leg now and thenAnd forgets to put it down.There is a menace in the airOf tragedies in the making.

Last night you thought you heard televisionIn the house next door.You were sure it was some newHorror they were reporting,So you went out to find out.Barefoot, wearing just shorts.It was only the sea sounding wearyAfter so many lifetimesOf pretending to be rushing off somewhereAnd never getting anywhere.

This morning, it felt like Sunday.The heavens did their partBy casting no shadow along the boardwalkOr the row of vacant cottages,Among them a small churchWith a dozen gray tombstones huddled closeAs if they, too, had the shivers.