the cold immeasurable water

is a blue lamé

seduction slipped over the noontime sea

and the water lies uncut against the shore,

a whole piece.

From my table I watch the rock islands

like buoys anchored there in the light, and

I pick at my nails.

Drake sailed on a blue journey once—

it was summer—past our whitened shore,

our hills, our heat mounding up

colossi of fog beyond exploring

beyond climbing, and

his crew idled, too, and drowsed,

the interior slipping past. 

 

© by Grace Hughes Chappell.

Used with the author’s permission.