Poignancies of August

Sometimes I worry that the sea
isn’t turning its pages
quickly enough to compensate
for the turning of the earth.
Sometimes I worry that the hills
won’t erode enough to expose
the entire truth of bedrock.

You never fret about birdsong
dropping a sour note or two
or about oaks losing count t
of the acorns they drop every day.
No, you watch me watching the wind
comb the lawn by the Catholic church
and assume I’m insane because
I refuse to lock eyes with you
and allow our psyches to wrestle.

The afternoon creaks on hinges
you neglected to oil. We share
a pot of herbal tea and discuss
the likelihood of a prophet
agile enough to found a cult
to replace the ones we suffer
in the service of the cosmos.

Too much cross-communication,
you argue. But watching the surf
dredge the heaviest of seaweed
and noting how the most ancient
of metamorphic rock crumbles
I’m inclined to believe a woman
as surefooted as you could argue
the universe onto its knees.

We drink our tea so daintily
a stranger might mistake us
for strangers; but the bottomless
afternoon light knows us well,
and the oblique parts of our gaze,
although they never quite focus,
regard us with fruitful regard.