morning near Cape May


There is a Hopper print
in a rental house
near Cape May.

Strangely
it replicates
the very place
in which it resides.

Soft sun
on a sun-blanched
deck of non-description.
Neither invite, nor rebuff
just there.

And so I walk through tidal pools at five AM.
The vast expanse of the Atlantic does not
assail, then.
And no ships appear on the horizon
With promise of rich spice adventure
and other illusions.

Sandpipers skittle dance to quivers of froth.
Droplet parapets of yore are pregnably dissolved.
And communities of hours are a knee-bend away.

sand crabs prowl most fruitfully
grand minnow ballabile
mermaid slippers immodestly saunter
an urchin begs for solitude

my moveable molluscan feast…
ah Dave, there’s your starfish!

Everything bears this imprint of impermanence.
Each footfall carried away in murmur of foam.

And like every child I scour
the shore for the special ones ~

mother-of-pearl teasing
the perfect black fan
a tangerine surprise.

When the brine is washed off
You will lose your patina.
But now you are perfect.
Full ripened dead seashells
Not a shard in the lot.

It is time for black coffee
and the chattings of morning.

I walk past the Hopper
cupping my wealth
a breeze kiss on bare leg
it will be warmer today.