Even in July, from this point north
the sea is rough. Today the wind is treason
tearing at our flag and kicking that commercial
trawl around. We and salmon are beached
or driven down. A need to respond
to defeat—the need to go far—
A Cadillac blooming with girls—
is heritage the gulls who peel off now
across the strait to Double Bluff find fun.
Those cream cliffs miles across the sea
are latent friends. Seabirds are remote
enough to go unnamed, unnamed enough
to laugh a favorite harm away. Waves
go on buffooning and cheap stitching gives
and one bird is Old Betsy flapping north.
I know a flat and friendless north.
A poem can end there, or a man, but never
in a storm. The southbound tanker
cruises by unbudged by slamming waves.
Great bulk often wins and you and I
are fat and sipping beer and waiting
for this storm to rearrange the light,
for birds to come back named, with jokes
and for the sea to weaken, just enough
to kick back home on, never weak
as cream or flat as a summer lake.
for John Duffy Mitchell