To be a bird and fly south,
to know only summer.

We sit in West Point Grey
and think it over,
watch the birds,
leave an emptiness,
watch again and see geese
give us the V, like feathered
Churchills as they win
over the yielding year
that has put on motley
in the trees or mufti
for the fly past.

The only consolation
is that, soon, in the high places
snow will do through the eye
what chocolate does through the stomach,

but still the dinosaurs who have lost the earth
will have earned eternal Junes

and the sky for their concession.

SUNSET: HUATULCO, BAHIAS DE

With a sough and sigh,
Like the belly of a sow
Asleep, the ocean rolls
Over and over on her side.
This is what we call the tide,
The toll
Of water’s liquid bell, and now,
The lie
And the lyre
Of dying light,
The grey-blue mire
Has turned into a sty,
A pink eye
Of pure fright.