The ghost of the stationmaster is sleeping rough
in the Winding House shell - its arched eyes gape,
the wind surges through him.
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Let me in
Clawing at the ribs,
those polished white candlesticks
pretty red tassels decorate.
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The train whistle rips his thoughts, taunting
the papermaker as he leaves the sleek, concrete
bunker by the sea where he makes his paper now.
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Here, nature is tame.
Fences and bushes and well-cut paths.
Nothing like the wild walks of home
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I will remain myself, myself always;
these restrictions will not inhabit me,
never in a month of Sundays.
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Behind the usual things
there is something else.
You and I, changed by chance,
late to our own party,
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summer is sinking her teeth into my bones, like I am a rotten fruit in the mandibles of a bug. my peach fuzz skin lies broken open on the sand, the sea breeze slowly cooling my insides.
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Why is it that the pen on paper feels so much more intimate when I know it is going to you?
Each stroke becomes my hand in yours, yours in my hair
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crying — that godawful sign of life
panic — occasional sign of love —
sparrows in their branches shrieking to each other
about the cat in the grass.
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