THE OCEAN OF OTHER THINGS

Gray silk 
wrapped around 
the pilings,
the autumn sea 
lapping at the pier. 
Through the cold 
water we see 
anchors, coins, 
clear as if 
just forged 
and cooling 
in the sand.

When will we 
cease moving 
in the landscape,
our names no more 
than words on lips 
in prayer?

The steps are endless.
Remember 
that city in Sicily
with the tile stairs?
A hundred steps 
to the cathedral, 
then beyond, a steeple, 
and believers climbing 
cloud to cloud, 
even on a cloudless day, 
to the place where 
they can be invisible, 
shed the mystery
of the body.

How can we be still 
enough, in all this 
noise and friction, 
the forms in panic 
swirling, rush hour
for the ghosts, 
and you pinned 
to a whirlpool,
in between stars 
so quick they 
overpower words,
and the uncertain earth 
pulled out 
from under us 
like the tide,
a trick of the eyes 
and ego, sensation 
of the heart, 
an alarm clock 
ticking 
facedown, 
its hands buried 
in the world.

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