While Visiting East Egg, Long Island

The boat we watched was

simply an angle of sharp white sail

against the clean divide of hazy

blue-white and murky blue-green.

Life was entirely made of the

salty sea-smell, like spilt blood,

thick with soupy life, and the

bright lemon alacrity of the wine

you brought down from the

beach-house. Your nest of

spun yellow hair caught the

afternoon sun and each flyaway

strand amplified your silent

magic and I imagined first

you against gray Milan, then

on a bridge over the

Seine. Wondered if I would

ever do any foreign traveling.

Wondered if, perhaps, you wondered

the same. The sun made me tired

but before long it was down

and we talked about moving inside,

breaking what had been a marvelous

length of reflection.

--RFRY, 02 Aug 06

This is a version of While Visiting East Egg, Long Island.