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NO HORIZON
They walk up out of the sea: two priests
in sodden cassocks, a boy with a peaked sailor cap
and a young man with a trilby—possibly
a newspaperman—, his pants
tolled tight above his knees. They are carrying
the black girl of the sea. Their mouths
are open, they must be singing.
On either side, the grave white horses wait,
a wave crumpling at their feet. The sky is low.
This is a long time ago. When I awoke this morning
the gap between the curtains was of the same yellow grey.
Such clarity is pain. These is no horizon
to the warm honey-sleek water; o tidal swell
lifts the blue row-boat she is standing in.
And when, of a hot night, wrapped in a damp sheet
she runs from the colossal furniture
of her haunted room on the cliff's rim, down
the loud hall., straight into my shocked arms, like now,
the right words grind in my salt-burned throat.
   
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