buoy

in whitewashed tree                                                                                              –has not put off buds in several seasons,

its base a clench of scrub,            marsh elder   beach heather   heath,   and ahh about it all the smell of late fall, so sweet                                     wax myrtle on the cheek-filled low trill of bayside birds–

a buoy.                                                 single

stripe of red

stranded there                                 twilight, holochrome      weightless trundle of                                                   moonlit fishing line                                                                   a rack of time, & sun                                                                                                                             sea to tree warped space holding hallow home of feathered winds

& so many eyes.

what storm raised

waters so high?      it has been a long time since i have called this home,                                                                   and i am surprised when, the following season, after two years      of making acquaintance                                                    red-striped buoy no longer hangs.

inconsequential but, the weight of my own

unanticipated expectations draw a sour to my mouth and disappointment to my chest who?  would cut that down, i find myself saying to sulphur mudflats, low tide

tumps of dried sea grass, crunched and flattened

under my boot, &

birdless wind, no response

sings on

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