On the summer’s end edge
of dark, the coast we seine
lies caÌlm as after love.
The long wreck, the ledge,
float like rockweed in
the floodtide moon. The cove
is full. The mỉlky way
drifts overhead, oars drip
light, the bow wave burns,
and herring fire the sea.
At the porpoise chase, they flip
and churn. The school turns,
and I pull a port oar
to follow, swinging the thỉn
pole deep, sounding to feel
their strike toward shore,
ready now to set twine
where they hang and wheel.
Girl, before we close
them off, look down once
at the swimming light
we have to love or lose.
September phosphoresence
fills the sea. The night
is round, and we row on
the surface of our dreama.
An ebbtide catch is chanee,
but here! there! look down:
under us the cold light streams
ashore, and the seas đanee.
Before we drift asleep,
see, love, how stars run deep.
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