I have come through hardwoods,
from the road that circles the island.
Alone with a thousand jagged spires
sharply grey against the sky and sea.
The vast empty sea, east to Pablo’s
to Hart Crane slipping into the Caribbean
Celan finding refuge in the Seine,
Federico face down in a hillside grave.
The horizon line interrupted by an
ineffable mood. White top waves
of a deeper blue, and spray salted,
white, spews high above the cliffs.
The cliffs. In this place I sit alone
with every poet I have ever known.