Hometown for an Hour: Poems

The Storm

The Storm Provincetown Last night’s rain fell as thick as Gettysburg’s volleys all turned one way, piercing the harbor like the flesh of fifty thousand soldiers. High tide bleeds into the street this morning though there is no moaning here, not even gulls keening, whinnying, insanely laughing— the whole shrill gamut of their repertoire. Where do gulls go during the sky’s shooting season? It’s over now, anyway; the fog’s too thick to hit anything on purpose. The widow’s walks are empty, though for a different reason: No one returns. And the widows are dead. The foghorn booms and a church bell chimes back— danger and time tuning to the same pitch. Why must they die so young—those soldiers, this town’s gaunt men, people I love? Teach me, teach me the utility of anguish, how the bell and foghorn learn each other’s language. 27 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...