What you see of the sea from here
is blue, everyone says, but I focus
on the muddier stuff, the gray,
and the way the slow clouds
stand down, as if uncertain claims.
If you look, the water is barely
distinct from the sky, which is so blue.
No one comes to the shore indifferently,
as if it were the Main Street shops
or a vague meandering Sunday drive;
people at the shore,
the sand are looking for something.
The infinite as the far horizon
intimates the air’s weird saltiness.
Where does it come from, where
does it go? The living thought looking
for configuration, for a form,
settles on singing
songs to make its own
way. It’s the singing itself keeps
the story at bay, it’s like whistling.
Bio: Charles D. Tarlton