meet me outside in shades of gray
with a coat
and a sign that you see
where we walked on the beach in Oregon
—
great gray clouds cling to water unsteady
unable to hold them
flung inward
to rocks of red and black
and brown and deep smell of rain
with moss
with rot
with wood made soft enough to carve our names
with fingernails
only a little bit of grit
a damp dust to later clean
and think of that morning
—
beach born to creek mouth
spread wide and spitting wood and rocks
but mostly rocks
in rolling rumble moan
at each toss
back and forth
though always a little further
and a little closer
to out to sea
to out to water
—
born back to crack
and break and build this beach
where you and I were walking
watching figures in the fog
made to bade the water to come in
but it was coming in
on its own
—
a cord of light stretched out
over the indeterminate horizon
now breaking
pieces each so small
now long
in frail fragmentary waves
—
the day ending or beginning
a gray light to think
and hold everything in stark
clear contrast
with what was
and what would come after
on that strand of sand so rough
and olive skinned
—
and the silhouette became a figure
and that figure became a man
animated by cold
a leg stiff out behind
and lagging leg
pull up to watch the waves
—
and he cast a cloud’s shadow onto paper
with whispered words
wavering like the sea
before and behind him
lines that were
upon closer consideration
not in this language
—
and he laughed and said
this is the one
as if that was all there is
the one
—
and pulled himself on
with the gull-like garbled laugh
to announce himself to the tide
that was coming in all of its own
with all of its own
—
a cord draped off the moon
to drag it in
but it came willingly
and was welcomed as a necessary decay
—
breaking rocks into smaller rocks
rocks into sand
into the beach
in Oregon
that I ask you to see with me now
be with me now
though it was long ago
and I am waiting
for winter
to sweep up this ragged rug of fall
Pinwheels 