On the Beach

Long Island, July 1996

Difficult to focus, to read
the sun sinking westward casts a pall
on water still as glass, and flickering
evening shadows. I look skyward—
geese, gulls, something always passes
by—this time, a plane, exploding.

Children sometimes stare at light
through night-time bedroom windows,
or wide-eyed gaze at lamplight
high on hallway ceilings,
then close their eyes, astonished
at the lingering stark frayed image.

Am I so much the child
that I believe whatever blazes, dazzles,
is so utterly my own—that I deny my own
perception, lose the will to speak?
And what have I seen
except a deeply etched reminder
of the true event—a path of light,
a blast, the shattering of lives,
a shattering—distinctly etched—
but only a reminder.
I never saw the real thing
but see it now on everything that's real.
Difficult to focus, to feel.
To piece metallic shards into a whole.
To feel beyond a fragmentary fear
that leaves the spirit unredeemed and numb.
The sun sinking westward I look skyward.
Is it dawn, this dome of darkness?
Are those stars or burning stone?