Walking about the marina on a rainy day,
I think about my dying father and what he tried to say.
I see the details of which I don’t need to be aware:
The bricks below my feet, the spaces between the bricks, the moss between the bricks—the million details resting there.
What is a poem compared to reality?
A poem is a voice, which you overhear—
Not specifically for you, but to you it’s meaningful and clear.
Light rain falling from a swimming, occluded sky.
And there’s that sail, that sail—which will sail, by and by.