There's a poem dated later in July.
It's called "Long Island Sound."
And this was one of the first of the poems
that I actually got around to writing up.
"Starting the day at sunrise, there is an escalator of light
to ride out on the waves.
And among beer cans and apple crates,
smell of rotting fish, our anniversary.
Reaching to fulfill herself, she is becalmed
and will sleep late, as I kick driftwood
with all the tenderness left in the world.
Behind me, a dark continent westward, its silver dagger
poised, the gleam of it.
Nights, hearing the wild pigs run in their blindness,
I've not felt such fear.
And wanting to be back home in the Sonoran Desert,
I recall she collected fragments of seashell,
fossils of anemones in the coolness of dawn.
She could be the sun reaching over the ocean.
Her sleep is that ancient, murky, and deep.
Oh, as the tide comes in."