EASTPOINT
Without explaining how I came to stand here
counting the boats in the harbor and losing count
every time the tide changed, so that I could have
marked off each day by its lapse of attention;
without telling the Freudian, astrological, accidentally
fateful plots; without atoning for without retreating from
the tenderness spent on green leaves, white pages,
the absolute black of the alphabet--
so that the hours rested on stilts of words and the words
like the turtle who holds up the world, stood
on the currents of space, on nothing--
without warnings or forecasts;
I want to show you this beach, the violet
light cast up by the ocean,and something
that Einstein never saw: a space
that isn't married to time:
open water, without boats
briefly, until they come home.