The howling of the August winds

Around your desert house begins

A game of telephone

Today, where the moan

Of airy ghosts around adobe

Resurrects the Gobi

  • As it should -

As well as shuttered wood

And peeling paint from North Shore days

Invisible with haze,

Imitating all the sounds

Of old New England towns,

Taking on the pale imposture

Of where you are in Gloucester,

But keeping, in the heat, the stance

Of a vineyard in the south of France

Surrounded by the floating spray

And flapping ropes of St.-Tropez,

Buried in the swell of sea

And gaudy hulls Raoul Dufy,

With flying neon semaphores

And shades of water colored shores,

Riding buoys and sailing skies,

Summons up in eggshell dyes

Of imaginary memories,

Products of an ocean breeze

Whose toy boat masts and painted waves

Are picture perfect architraves

Of the son of et lumière,

Raging in the morning air,

Where those enemies, ears and eyes,

Mysteriously equalize,

And where the window’s mourning noise

And the posing landscape wildly poise,

Balanced on the seesaw screen,

As the glassy similes we’ve seen

From the wind in Santa Fe

Paint insistently your distant bay.