Ode to Shelly Beach—, excerpt
Down hill—crane lift—to girders and casement widening . . .
Day came and for a while beads still
Fall over the bridge, as it runs out on trestle tables. Soon,
A normal day, with the light I don’t think would be believed
By people in other countries.
Along the slow road underneath
They are fishing for their livelihoods. A man sets his wife
On one knee and the cork handle of his line, smiling
On the other.
Small waves flowing off the foundations
Clap hands with new arrivals.—Deceiving fins
On the stillness of carpet,
As you walk to the tilt of pale spines in tie.
I cannot hope
To sound like a drowned man, finally (provisionally) positioned.