Sunday, May 21, 2017

Cate Lycurgus


Let’s say this is the best hour we’ll have—
the thickest strained sunlight, tallest pride

of madeira to bluen. It’s not on my mind,
but should be. How to keep spooning

chowder when cream-gutters crust
this bottomless carton? I was good

at going on. What more can there be
for retrieval? Not even the sea lions lift

their whiskers as sandflies line their eyes.
They know how a fealty launches us on,

to the next jetty, aglimmer—one rubs its legs,
eager as I, to halt his opaline wing—I slap,

come up empty, no hundred-lens vision
smashed to my inner palm. The pups won’t let

me an instant of pause:  when I tell them this
is my zenith, they bark, and bark the horizon on.