Letter from the Shore - Slate

Photo by Brian Crowley

Letter from the Shore

We’re out past the old town line,

a block from the railroad tracks;

trains rattle the shelves every other hour.

Nights getting colder,

solid ice below the dam,

fishermen bringing huts, lamps—  

towing enormous shadows.

I went for a closer look tonight

—little congregations

kneel in the dark;

buckets, spears, and the openings

they cut are cellar doors

at which they seem to listen,

or you could say (almost) pray.       

Mostly they are quiet,

careful silhouettes

cut on glowing lanterns—

here or there a figure

standing, suddenly pulling up

the silver, dripping bead.

Halfway out among the stations,

one man raised his arm—

a semaphore on gas-blue flame,

and from here of course

whatever I tell you is wrong.

I will never cross the ice

to learn his gear or weather

—or what the men might say

to someone on shore.

Night carries on,

the wind increases,

some of the lights will leave.

Past two, another train will barrel through,

sky will have damped

out half the stars by far,

and when this letter reaches you,

send a mortal flare,

tell us where you are.

- Published on Slate in a slightly different form, September 4, 2012