Three Poems

Beacon

Just secrets to the sea
is what we were, the moon

inside us, waxing,
as if astonishment, slipping
like oysters through

our throats, were
a type of force, the frozen
girdle of purple lips

struggling,
not to breathe, but with breath –

In the end, we made it
to the lighthouse, which was
never the point.

We climbed a ladder to the top
because there were no stairs



Night on the Thames Path

To have settled in the fraternal space between play and fight
...