THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA

“We will ride out under the stars of Wales, Cry multitudes of arks” —Dylan Thomas

We dream quiet seas—
Fan-shoals of gleaming fish and dolphins
drift at ease, and drowsy whales circle in bright hierarchies of love.

Mornings you take the boat out on the strait.
From shore your scruffy hair
a speck
in noonday sun. Port Angeles! Land of miracles!
Tiny house on the bluff—
a refrigerator stocked with oranges—
the German Shepherd pup barking until you return.

In Colorado I lose ground—careless with all that matters,
I tease decorum to fit the severity of my outcry,
my words dying before they reach your ears.
Sick and bewildered,
I return to Montana alone.

On the Peninsula
Neah Bay breakers hammer islands.
In shudder of mist
screeching gulls
bleed night’s uncanny hours.

Immensity of the trawling tide falls through our hands—
dead weight of the intolerable sea.


Forthcoming in Weber, The Contemporary West