for Bill Asti
Here, near the outer elbow of Cape Cod’s
flexing arm, seated in his director’s
chair on Fo’castle’s tight porch, fishing rod
asleep at his feet, he gazes toward shore
of Nauset Marsh, listens to Atlantic
breath creak clapboard surrounding him. Glances
west to catch last rays of sun as it flicks
brief glare through dune’s sea grass. New light dances
due north in the Coast Guard station’s windows.
He feels phrases stirring, soon to be snatched
from him like gulls at dawn seizing minnows
as he watched on the beach. Now he’ll unlatch
the door, feed the starved fireplace, kerosene
lamp, ink pen; record voices of the sea.
Roger Armbrust
July 14, 2008
