-the last days of the earth-

Looking eastward when the cold
Sweat takes hold,—
When the blade of the Heathlands

And the North Atlantic’s volume and its weight
Load a potent ammunition to the restlessness.
Drenched sheets and the cliffs
Slicing sharply into the great

Outer beach of the Cape
Give-way at our feet

And the clay-pounds move,

Rolling slowly, then sharply snap

As the world cracks at its own face.

Under the weight of water before us

An earthquake happens.

The whole ocean pushes over its own skin

Like the dark angel exhaling a boiling breath
Then sinks in a whirlpool into itself

Far below its waterline.
There’s nowhere to run.

The eyes of the boy fall gently
On the face of the girl
pulling herself up, dusting

The sand and clay from her dress,
Reaching for her crayons.

In the distance the great tidal-wave builds,

Pushes upward and landward as the air
Is stripped of its breath.
December’s freezing stiffly.

The gulls are screaming, veering westward,
And she colors the purple atmosphere.

No souls but our own

Can be seen on the beach which elongates

As far as the eye can see to the south,

And as far as the eye can see to the north.

She colors the full page.

He pleads for a few more spikes driving outward

Projecting from the face of her waxen Sun.

That’s what happens inside the recurring dream,

Looking eastward over the ocean from the blade
Of the Heathlands.

                                        for Josh and Jenny,
                                       Wellfleet, 12/20/11