September 2, 2013
Should I get older
I recognize me, more blind,
Crinking my neck back, there, as
I look up at the cliff terrace
And A windowed hideaway behind,
Not so unapproachably high,
Fixed over our Pacific, finally,
That we thought might couldn’t be.
Hard rain, hell, wept down a wet
that mixes well w/regret, on my shirt
One can look past all our four shoulders
From inside the glass wall
On to the backside of our Adirondacks
And maybe just make out
What we’re watching and talking about.
A man closely following his own footsteps
The long stretch of the shore,
But looked up at the both of us,
Hand in hand, and how then the heavens poured.