WEBVTT

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This is where I'm
from, Aberdeen.

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The gray sea turns in its
sleep, disturbing seagulls

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from the green rock.

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We watched the long collapse,
the black drop and frothing

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of the toppled wave.

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Looked out on the dark
that goes to Norway.

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We lay all night in an open boat
that rocked by the harbor wall,

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listening to the tires
creak at the stone quay,

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trying to keep time till
the night fishers came

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in their ark,
their lap of light.

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The fat slap of waves, the
water's sway, the water

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mullioned with light.

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The sifting rain,
italic rain, the smirr

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that drifted down for days.

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The sleet.

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Your hair full of
hail as if soon there.

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In the damp sheets we left each
other sea gifts, watermarks,

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long-lost now in all these
years of the rip tides' swell

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and trawl.

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All night the feeding
storm banked up

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the streets and houses.

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In the morning, the sky was
yellow, the frost ringing.

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The gray sea turns in its
sleep disturbing seagulls

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from the green rock.

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That was a singularly
inappropriate poem

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to read in Tucson, Arizona.

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[LAUGHTER]

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