r.miller
From here the language floods over,
out on the old east coast.
Looking at the water of the Chesapeake
with eyes so inclined to romance,
you almost see masts on the ships.
Forgetting a nearer history produced diesel.
The cold
blowing in off the Atlantic,
is what I had hoped for.
Even to be dressed this way with
a woolen coat
buttoned high.
And to walk down-cast
at reeds and sand,
kicking and turning over smooth sticks and stones.
Of course it is a clean emotion. Proudly
held up by stoicism and solitude.
Probably, it is just the wind
or watching the gulls.
Another man is crouching low
looking out.
Commonly dressed,
I am sure a sailor.
His eyes on the low skyline.
This is when men are at their best.
This is when they love the most.
When words are not used
and their hearts beat inside them.
