5.4.02 Night Crossing (the Surrender)
After the readings for Curnow, the poets
and the friends of the family
keep to the edges, squinting through the light glass
as the dust settles one last time.
Behind us the sea still
a vast beat wedged
in Anne's photograph.
Carole took the phrases of the sea
and hung them from the ceiling on fine threads.
Over and again a glass flask might tip
the liquid black wide apart, upon this drizzled floor,
this flowing whey, the words like gravy. We'll get fat
on the rich view when the ocean is as the ocean is.
Bill said, it's just a poem
after sky, and water quiet,
after everything was backing away,
and we all make a circle seaward
with a fragile beaker in our bloodshot sights
looking at the sweaty, yellowy sun.