The waterline above the windowsill
heaves gray as light comes on. The sun hangs
doubtfully in fog above the sail-strewn attic
where I watch the day make ready to ride in.
Summer is almost over, but it lasts
like the touch of winter in the water.
We do nothing with our days. At night
we listen to dancing music drift
across the bay, avoiding what’s coming.
I go out in the thick morning and wash off
the family dust, testing my will to fight the tide.
Rubber and bones, I make for the chalky rocks.
I am raw in the wind. The barnacles
ache as I stand, eyeing the boats and land.
A change of weather rasps the corners of the sky
an eerie yellow. Somewhere out of sight an island
banded by whistling waves swirls
in the bright eye of a hurricane.
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