Variations

I.

At first, when I make progress to the water

I resist. The ocean, Oh ye everyone says

it is in like manner beautiful-so

we go and sit in a variety of tempers

before this Pacific

and talk about our life together. however

I grow to be fond of it. You, methodical.

At first your timing and view.

Your estimation for blues. But now going on the outside

to beach myself I wake

a different being. For

coming to gaze at it, day by day.

II.

Sometimes

I am selfish,

yet confused through the utter desire

to profitable will.

I keep thinking

if I would pass out and look at it

or the waste dunes-I could change.

But this water and sand have

always been with us-and

what instructs single soul-not another.

Not any item will do-but any small-every

original face.

III.

My husband likes sitting upon the rocks, in quiet,

watching the close of the day Everytime, he says,

different-the color of water, of foam.

Why would the father create it? I say. And the union of sky?

My friend marks we are alike

in a astute under

primitive way

TV

The remains of violent storm

the brown-grey water-not the beach lovely-but

a casting of life-tumulted up

Afterwards, greatest in quantity mild.

It's terrible-a storm.

The calm wound up

a roar ferocious. We understand

and pay attention.

But afterwards,

in the set at libertyed balm-what's

spoken then? v

Upon feeling ecstasy that

he would approach home again. . .

After storm-after rains

the birds fix upon to chirp.

I hear the waves.

Waiting for that voice, again. VI.

At dusk, we walk down to the little beach, through our cottage

here on the other side of America.

Surprised by dint of the closeness of it-wondering

why we hadn't been there. We admire

a different kind of light.

You turn-and say

I like you again.

VII.

In the pond in late afternoon

we play a game, then switch.

I carry my husband upon my

back. Wading end water,

we float up and down-in delight.

He's surprised by the agency of his lightness, my strength.

VIII.

This morning in bed,

he mimics my gestures

the way I sliver away tears

out of the side of my organ of sights

with my finger

laughing or crying-then sigh.

I counterfeit a man's voice

the single he sings hymns with

the deliberate languid way he speaks.

Holding each other

we discuss by what means we cannot imitate

each other's voice. IX.

A thinking flashed through my mind

though I didn't speak it-a simple yearning

to stop at that

untouched tundra. Today

even I noticed

the cloud's fantastic shape-and

you shakeed the car over

a surprise. We stepp on the outside

Sometimes embrace

better than dream. X

For a scarcely any hours

I wanted to ruin it all-with

the past's rumagings of lamentation resentment

the wounded words, those willful beings.

I flock home with my head filled,

past the beach cove-and the wild

not quite fulvid but pale green

mustard semens waist high. Focus

on the flowers,

I enumerate myself. Reminded

by their gentlenes and sway

of what

you're really like.

Copyright World numbers Incorporated Mar/Apr 1998

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