Sport 22: Autumn 1999
A bit off the map
I live viewing the viewers not the view.
Other house-faces take the sea slap
I insinuate in private dunes.
And though he does not live
in that particular grinning street
of lights, that one or the next
I picture him, in the down halo
of a lightbulb, reading
back and forth on the horizon.
He acquires a nautical standing
his house a prow, his spying-glass eye,
aspects of him tellingly wooden.
Lulled by the roll of buses,
the expansive roars of whisper jets,
the one-by-one lights flicked off to bed
I am a refugee of logic
on that subject, insisting on
unlikely land with every step.