Buried at Springs

There is a hornet in the room
and one of us will have to go
out the window into the late
August mid-afternoon sun. I
won. There is a certain challenge
in being humane to hornets
but not much. A launch draws
two lines of wake behind it
on the bay like a delta
with a melted base. Sandy
billows, or so they look,
of feathery ripe heads of grass,
an acid-yellow kind of
goldenrod glowing or glowering
in shade. Rocks with rags
of shadow, washed dust clouts
that will never bleach.
It is not like this at all.
The rapid running of the
lapping water, a hollow knock
of someone shipping oars,
it’s eleven years since
Frank sat at this desk and
saw and heard it all:
the incessant water the
immutable crickets only
not the same: new needles
on the spruce, new seaweed
on the lowtide rocks,
other grass and other water
even the great gold lichen
on a granite boulder
even the boulder quite
literally is not the same


A day, subtle and suppressed
in mounds of juniper enfolding
scratchy pockets of shadow
while bigness—rocks, trees, a stump—
stand shadowless in an overcast
of ripe grass. There is nothing
but shadiness, like the boggy depths
of a stand of spruce, its resonance
just the thin scream
of mosquitoes ascending.
Boats are light lumps on the bay
stretching past erased islands
to ocean and the terrible tumble,
and London (“rain persisting”)
and Paris (“changing to rain”).
Delicate day, setting the bright
of a young spruce against the cold
of an old one hung with unripe cones
each exuding at its tip
gum, pungent, clear as a tear,
a day stained and fractured
as the quartz in ribbons in the rocks
of a dulled and distant point,
a day hke a gull passing
slowly flapping its wings
in a kind of lope, a day without
breeze enough to shake loose
the last fireweed flowers,
a faintly clammy day, like wet silk,
stained by one dead branch
the harsh russet of dried blood.