Wet Sands

Wallace Stevens

Let the fish go

I hung-on

To our sea-fret moorings

Now I talk of Saturday’s sunlight

In what is the overlong season of mists

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Gifts

Looking for a thought

With which

To begin the day

A place perhaps

Or a wave lapping

On a sun-soaked beach

Looking for a light

With which

To illuminate the idea

To present a future

From the past

Or maybe the present

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Locations

You are here

Here in this house

Here, in this room

We sit together

In meditation

Also, in the bedroom

We lay together

To become closer

More-so than in love

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Destinations

Finding my feet

Friday morning’s flight

Giving all

To the new direction

Met at the airport

Taken to the shops

Then onto Mon Plaisir

For a close and warm embrace

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Micro

Our life

A cosmos

On a pinhead

In the Exhibition

Without strife

A fine dust

Particulate

Situation

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