Bracing light and nearly silent here, behind the house.
Grey wood, softened by salt air. A deck chair, canvas
stretched across its metal frame, opening like a mouth
tilted back in expectation. The sea drifting in close
to the cliffs, its shimmering moan wrapped loosely in
wind and tangled with the sound of your guitar.
That sound coming faint and unintended from far inside
the house while the sky leans toward the water.
Your hand on my shoulder,
we abandon the end of day,
the rising moon,
slip through the glass
doors toward the bed
which rushes forward to meet us.
The window, dark now with the blue night
where the new moon cups the pale ghost
of the moon that is to be. And dark curve
of your body wrapped loosely round mine
tangled in the white sheet.
The day, draped in cool light,
is hollow again
Poems by Lisa Sitkin:
TEN: An Anthology of Northern California Poets