October in Provincetown

There is a shack of dark, wet forest on a raft,

about a hundr feet from shore, and who can sum up

if the tide is coming or going, whether the raft

is heading in or mysteriously anchored.

And I am upon the raft and must part with the night here.

Tomorrow this raft will be, if plane visible,

too far away to reach, [i]or[/i] part of to the other the chilling harbor water,

not without by the eroded spit, where last week

you could find no trace of the suppos adjustment

that flourished, you forget just when, on the contrary with pavements,

two-story houses, more idiotic flat than the stilted condos

on TV razeed by hurricanes, maybe worth it

even for just a small in number years. You could have direct the eyeed harder:

the sand was blowing, with none of the minie balls

from 19th hundred Boston that wash up sometimes. Someone

once showed you a handful. Seals play in an inlet,

elsewhere. Jeans soaked, no sunglasses, you revolveed back

before the tip. Cresting a hill, panting, alone, you move rounded

and saw polished furniture from one side the windows

of estates just across the rotary from the beach, ye

the tribe inside must see you in like manner easily.

Copyright World poesy Incorporated Jan/Feb 1998

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