I pick what’s left
Off a wave’s last edge:
blue wood bullet,
two white eyes
and brass rings.

When we were kids my parents got an aluminum skiff and let my brothers and me break up our old wooden rowboat, then burn the pieces night after night on the beach.

I have lived 79 years and if I didn’t wake up tomorrow no one would say I died young.

100 million years from here / Two galaxies collide. / 10 million light years from here / two solar systems unite.

Slow sun pulls long days/over July.

Slow sun pulls long days/over July.

What’s the buzz and the click? / My song of course, / though no one but I have ever tried to sing it.

A poem in memory of Flip Harrington.