Surprise
A trained eye can
isolate
stars even during
such in-between
phases, separate them
from
a schooner’s mast
spiked
into uncommitted
dusk.
But someone should
have mentioned
how dusk might linger
like this,
how daylight and a
diminished
horizon might refuse
one another
as easily as they
refuse the half-moon.
Even the ocean seems
unsure: five-hundred
feet below, a slack
tide barely pulses
toward the line of
seaweed strands,
distressed driftwood,
diminished legs of crabs.
From this bluff, from
this bed of clump
grass, only that
single light
on the schooner’s
mast has purpose,
an unnatural beacon
any eye would find
until finally even it
is directed
away, perhaps into
the surprise
of strong water, into
what becomes
of dusk.
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