My island, green and tranquil, rides the sea
Like a giant turtle dozing in the sun,
And my days are filled with hours just like this one
Where I sit at ease beneath a palm and watch
The surf erase the beach again and again.
To pass the time, I take my pen and note
The disposition of the clouds, the temper
Of the breeze, and the precise color of the sky.
I call this "work" as I tap my pages square
And drink my coffee. Offshore and out of reach,
The ships slog by, their decks and cargo holds
Filled with unquiet History--the clangor
Of laughter and howls, of chisel and lathe,
Of gunshots ringing across the waves.
And even from the shore, I can see
The Cavaliers in brocaded longcoats
Fencing on the helipad; the high steel
Workers welding joist to beam; the lines
Of naked, stick-like men and women marched
From freight containers to showers filled with gas;
And soldiers clutching M16s, their eyes
Gone wide behind their mirrored sunglasses.
I cap my pen and go inside.  I try
To reconcile those worlds with what I find:
A quiet kitchen, a kettle on the boil,
And a dog asleep in a spotlight of sun.

Dreaming of Bridges
 

Last night I was there again, that same old bridge
hanging above the river like the bones
of some iron dinosaur, and if I cross,
I know that on the right I’ll find a lake
tucked behind the soft hip of some green hill.
And on the left, I’ll find a park sprawled
across the landing, its grass trimmed, its trees filled
with sharp, bright birdsong.  But on this side,
the leaves are hushed, and willows stir the water
with languid fingers. Sometimes, I wonder why
the only thing that changes dream to dream
is the bridge itself. Some nights it’s this,
an Eiffel tower laid across the flood,
but others it’s a footbridge or train trestle
or a high-arching span of wire and light.
Whatever shape it takes, I stand, unmoved,
as shadows of clouds climb the bridge and cross
into that green country.  The river coils
against the pylons as quiet eats the air.

The Far Shore
 
     --The Lost Sea, Craighead Caverns, Tennessee
 
Stalactites, drapes of stone, and gypsum flowers
Gleam intestine pink among the grottoed spotlights
As the tour group paddles through the dark.
A woman in her thirties with skin as pale
As the blind trout that ghost below their boat
Sits between her parents.  Her father stares
Across the depthless green and picks his nails
While her mother, wearing a White Sox track suit,
Pets her daughter’s arm and rattles on
About their breakfast, how that stupid waiter
Had called her "ma’am" and treated her like dirt.
She smells like Jack and cigarettes, and tells
The quiet group of all the indignities
That wait for her above.
The boat glides on.
They drift against a wall, an arc lamp flares,
And chalky light reveals a fossilled scarp.
The guide points out crinoids and trilobites,
Their feathered arms and coal-black carapaces
Now sealed within four-hundred million years
Of limestone. And, as hands reach out to brush
The stone, like starfish on an ancient seabed,
The cave falls silent, the only sound the drip
Of water far out in the dark.  Her mother’s voice
Gone still, the daughter turns to see what’s wrong
And finds her mother staring, rheumy-eyed,
At all the years piled up, stone on stone,
Above her.  Her lips part, as if she’d speak,
But nothing comes. Her daughter strokes her hand
And murmurs, "It’s OK, Mom.  I know, I know."