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And then I was trying to
write a seven syllable

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line in a poem called
"The Night Watch."

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These all such
workshop poems, you've

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written those too, of course.

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Outdoors like a
false morning, fog

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washes the pine trees, it
shoulders against the windows,

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spreading across their
surface on its way upward.

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And this moment between
sleep and fault,

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this holding back, I
can hear the fog start

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to rise, the slow
memory of an ocean.

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And I, like a ship, begin to
stare, to lurch in its swell,

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and to move outward, beyond the
steel jetty, the lighthouse,

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the red flag channel buoys.

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Beyond, at last, sleep
even, into a deeper water,

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pale, oracular, its waves
motionless, seagulls absent.

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