An unaccustomed ripeness in the wood; move but an inch and moldy splinters
fall in sawdust from the aluminum-paint wall,
Once loud and fresh, now aged to weathered wood.
Squalls of the seagulls' exaggerated outcry, dimmed out by fog . . . Peace, peace.
All day the words hid rusty fish-hooks. Now, heart's-ease and wormwood,
we rest from all discussion, drinking, smoking,
pills for high blood, three pairs of glasses —soaking
in the sweat of our hard-earned supremacy,
offering a child our leathery love. We're fifty,
and free! Young, tottering on the dizzying brink
of discretion once, we wanted nothing, but to be...
