that call most to me
I imagine as oceanographic treasures:
Moscow, undersea mountain,
pressed by the weight and cold
of the dim abyss;
Venice, tangled in kelp
at the surface, its pieces joined
with sodden ribbons;
London, barnacled anchor,
its crust hiding
secrets, history, and good lies;
New York, that great sponge,
porous, soaking in the flowthrough
from all the world’s currents;
Tikal, Angkor Wat,
Tiahuanaco, Rapa Nui; out there
in the misunderstood margins,
waiting for the time to be ripe
so they can rise and erase
“Here Be Monsters” from the old charts.
Worcester, at first, didn’t seem like much to this old salt.
Arid, stoic, sticking up in the inland air.
At first glance, not even a bit of interesting flotsam.
It’s instead like visiting
a landlubber older brother
who pushes me roughly into the big chair
when I come through the door from a journey,
teaches me rudely but not without care
how quickly I can lose my sea-legs
once I sit for a while. “This is what it feels like
to be home,” he says. And it is that.
A good place from which to watch the sea. Home.