William Doreski worries over the wild turkey flock and doe and faun eating cracked corn in his back yard. He wastes his evenings watching mystery series on DVD. Otherwise, he is currently trying to figure out how Geoffrey Hill could come up with such a hefty collection of poems in just one lifetime. Along with reading, hiking in the snow and drinking coffee occupy most of his winter days until school resumes late in January, when he becomes a commuter again.
Blue on Blue
Too shallow for my big feet,
the lighthouse stairs defy me.
While I crouch in the shadows
at the base of the tall brick cone,
you ascend alone and smirking
to grasp a view of the island
and examine the Fresnel lens.
Gloom smokes from a dirt floor
footfalls have packed like shale.
I’d mistake my mood for ghosts
of sailors broken on rocks,
but the pastels swimming before
my gaze have haunted me for years,
no matter how far inland I hide.
You call from the height to claim
I’d love the blue-on-blue that sprawls
to Portugal and back again.
You say the lens warps the sunlight
so you can read the future.
The concentric annular sections
divide the temporal moment,
then reassemble it with focus
so powerful it projects us
for weeks and months ahead.
I’d like to see for myself
what’s making you giggle like
a tree-full of starlings. Maybe
you see me gawky in public,
as usual, or maybe I’m dead
in the street with traffic grumbling
back and forth over the smear.
Maybe you see the light surfing
over us both as the sun sets
in Laurentian shades of glory.
But what has given you wings,
so that when I step outside
I spot you leaping over the rail
and flying over the Atlantic
in a flutter of naked smiles?