Bollard & bulkhead, cormorant & clew, spindrift, scene:
the pitchkettle Tropic of Capricorn. The city. The sea
in its unsurprising windrows; the glyph of the break-
water. Each wintry glimpse, scene briny as a mollusk.
Clear-lined and empty of color. At home & in the mind
I play a quick “Whiskey Before Breakfast,” consider
a quick whiskey before breakfast. The mountain
dandles Cape Town on its bended knee and smolders.
So much of this work we do begins and ends
in silence. I would rather see the sound of the fingers
of cloud that feel their way over the sandstone rim;
they say a sign that rings and resonates like song,
like a daily collect in the cathedral of the sky.
The slim celebrant in light gray, the mist-curtain:
I am nothing. You are nothing. Let’s keep this just between us.