seaside weather-worn gray slats line
my neighbor's deck where nearly every night
he stands with a glass of wine
color of your toes
surveying the Sound, its shifting
disposition, the flat glass stare-back
of water and buildings,
the way the western light singes all that cool
on certain midsummer sundowns.
how much time have you spent
looking down
into the cracks, or a glass,
or at the uncertain path beneath,
your slow feet?
or out
where only your mind can reach,
wishing something different,
closer,
your body able
to bridge what is between.
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