A Ballerina, On a Shaking Shore

for W. C. Williams, and some others

There is a flickering
of midnight torches
along the edges of Atlantic beaches,
these shuttering retreats,
ghosted fall houses of Eastham,
Wellfleet’s quiet drive-in,
Truro’s barque emerging above the waterline.

Oh, Newman, what bitter jokes,
and shambling hallos you wave,
across a rocky continent,
toes that know Pacifica sands,
lament
Brooklyn’s strange coast.

And we, still seeking
she who sings worlds into being,
seeks impossible
candidate,
this ill defined, this
task list,
this weight and expectation,

She is dancing, she is unfound,
defining and defying
the colors cast around her,
a world we cannot enter,

but we glimpse at pieces,
cinema, poster, teasers and trailers,
her world is moments, flashed shadow,
flickering against the dunes,

and slipping across, then beneath the waves,
into strange cities,
subaqueous streets and alleyways,
temples to a sub mariner,

A dancer, perfect,
sunk beneath the waves.

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About Martin

I'm just... filling time.
This entry was posted in Creative Writing, Love, Poem, poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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