will be attended by those that matter
less and less with each passing day.
You will know you are expected
once you conclusively determine
you have received no invitation.
At Half-Island
At Half-Island, slate-gray water breaks
over rock and plasters
weeds like hair against the granite
It has been this way for years
the sea always swelling
the tides in flux
the breathing of the world
And anyone who pauses to sit
and watch the sea do its work
will feel a deep-breathing swell
slowly fill
the channels of their body
When the tide left the orca
slack on the rock
the men went out in tall oyster-boots
to take its teeth
They had a fine-gauge blade
for the enamel
Each tooth worn and grooved
as wood
a single one would fill your palm
with its heft
like an old flint-knife
found in a cave
One look at the angled whale
said something
was lodged in its belly
and soon the men
were cursing and gawping
as they pulled
the better part
of a moose out
including one
fine-hoofed foreleg
folded neat
as a camp chair
and half a rack
of splintered antler
I could see it then:
The wild-eyed moose
jolted in its crossing
as the water
swelled fat and black
around his churning
then dragged quickly down
to be bolted
in torn hunks
where the broken
antler did its piercing work
and the orca’s dark
life drained slowly
into its own belly
Maybe it is already
too late to talk
about appetite
or how we live
with rock and water
yet listen to neither
or how we cannot recognize
ourselves when delivered
to ourselves through signs
as when our souls
take the form of gulls
crying again and again
the one
sharp word
we all have in common—
The Central Registry
I slip two nights between the wooden slats.
We store them upright
to discourage warping.
Because night has a memory.
They are wrapped in brown paper,
tied up snug with twine
and surprisingly flat once folded.
I label each one neatly with a permanent marker
affixing a label to the spine for that very purpose
and then move on
to the moonlight
which needs to be poured into an aquarium
with a fungicidal solution.
So much moonlight is sickly these days.
Once, the twine broke
on a night long ago
and it started coming on—
the paper burst
with the snap of a small bore rifle
and it unfurled
like
