in the haze
where the surf cracks
on the rocks,
the cliffs fall and roll,
and return,
polished
jewels scattered across
the shore,
eventually, feed the grass
and the succulents
falling down the cliffs,
at the foot of the hills,
patches of lights
knots of roads,
houses, and the range
cuts the sky, but rolling,
and the pines dip,
and roll--
the moon high, haloed,
and square of Jupiter,
Saturn,
Mars to the right, across
from them,
the world can change, on
contingency,
but not much--I'll see you
in the haze, and through it,
I'll be seeing you,
all along the surface roads,
and highways, icy wind or
dry grass, or leaves
hanging and weaving over
the line, in the chill fog,
in sun setting,
behind the dark valleys
below the spine of the
high range,
shuddering, or standing,
in the steam of the last
cup of tea,
before entering night's
strange country,
and the glittering fringe
at it's borders,
I don't forget anything, and
why should I, anyway?
