A small curve of a port –
boats sit in great fields of mud, the water
rolled up like a carpet to join the sea,
to bunch into glossy, spit-tipped waves.
What did it mean –
if we longed for the sea?
The absent ubiquitous sea,
everywhere and nothing.
Walking on a road called Pas de l’Assassin,
I might think the sea is the victim.
In the brutal emptiness,
the stubbled fields could be rolled up
and sold to market –
I might be richer, but the land poorer.
The strange crucified lord
of the corn fields might answer someone’s
need, but not mine.
I settled down by a tank of green waters,
drowned my sorrows by downing
a dozen oysters.