page 42

Sunset

Sunsets are for poets and there's not a thing
I can do with this one.

Gulls are careering out of the picture.
A man is thrashing upstream as if he'd kill

for its source. Wind chills my back
as I stand by the estuary which flares

like a glacier on fast forward towards the ocean.
No evening star. No moon.

Strands of gold thrown out
in the silver stream like trash