Reading in Bed

by evening light, at the window, where wind blows

it’s not enough to wake with morning

as a child, the insistent urge of habit



sounds, to write a poem, to pore over one’s past

recall ultimate orders one has since doubted

in despair. Inner reality returns



of moonlight over water at Gloucester, as

fine a harbor as the Adriatic, Charles said, before the big storm

blew up to land ancient moorings, shards against sand



of memory at midnight; ah yes the dream begins

of lips pressed against yours over waves, tides,

hour-long auto rides into dawn, when time



pounds a mystery on the beach, to no death out of reach.