(Sailing from Haverstraw to the Sound)
Here, luxury's the comon lot.
We are in its lap: slack and flood
contractions give us life again.
Fine wool haze hides the shore. We are
the only beings still alive.
It's left to us to keep the dawn's
mauve city dream of peace and grace;
to keep the sun's warm gaiety,
wind playing the world like a harp.
At dusk we keep the sunset's
deepening chakras, when blue glazed
purple swells insipre a grail-moon's
spilled quicksilver to do-si-do.
Trace the flowing rim of storm clouds.
All the myths of time are seen here.
This glass reflects something like God
AJA
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