- Continuum
The world was a shore, whether sound or form Or light, the relic of farewells . . .
—Wallace Stevens
Storms blacked the morning out, but with noon
now floating some phantom blues, the lulled
cove tones everything down. Honed by horizon,
peaks fall back into line, and loons resume
their leery routes while shadows leaf through
shallows again. Open now to slow reflection,
the limestone book of changes cites what [End Page 83]
can’t be lost. If returns as is. Driftwood speaks
for the tribe that had no word for wilderness. [End Page 84]